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#3

One Day at a Time

Written by Joshua David Krenz

 

"The bone structure of the skull is unrecognizable now. A forensic scientist might be able to identify bits and pieces-but this subject is far beyond Humpty Dumpty. Chips of teeth and broken jaw seem to have lodged themselves into the airway-implying that the subject was still alive when his mouth was shattered. Further lab analysis will be able to determine what finally the cause of death was, but I'm guessing it will read something like 'crowbar'."

-From the notes of Walter Cratchet.

The boy and his father were both circus performers. Strange profession. They traveled the countryside putting on shows of amazing feats-making people laugh, scream, and stare in awe. However, when not on the tour the two returned to the city in order to have "some down time." For the father this meant a lot of drinking, gambling, and whoring. For the boy, it meant staying at home alone or terrorizing the alleyways.

Walter Cratchet went over his notes; the father was sitting in the back of a patrol car with his head in his lap. Every so often he would look up to see the huddled mess that once contained his son. It mostly resembled costumed meat at this point.

As performers on holiday this father-son duo was required to practice, generally in costume. The son had been an acrobat-one of the circuses star attractions. He would leap through the air like a robin dodging a falcon. He twisted like torrid weather, rolled like a falling star. He had his own poster. People knew his name, and went out of their way to see him-after all; he was but a child, and performing daredevil acts never seen before. The circus' owners had him dye his hair black, so that he would fit in with the other acrobats-"Makes 'em look like a family. People like families." The father had always wondered why no one cared that he was the boy wonder's father, but then again-no one would believe that this world class high-wire performer could possibly have sprouted from a lowly clown.

Walter looked over at the man sitting in the back of the police cruiser. He was still wearing his white-faced make-up, and his hair had been dyed a bright green color. Walter always ended up bringing his work home with him-both literally and emotionally. However, Walter never had to wear the cop-suit 24-hours a day. The father was only a few years older than Walter. The teenage boy could easily have been Walter's own son-if he had one.

The father had been cooperative with Walter and the other officers at the scene. "I don't want any trouble-" the man had said. He gave a complete confession to the first officer, and then repeated the same confession to Walter. He had been drinking. Generally, after a days work practicing with the circus the father would head to the bar for a few cold ones. Sometimes those few cold ones turned into a couple of shots. Sometimes those couple of shots became "a bit too much." Walter supposed that this was one of those "bit too much" days.

The father was walking home from the bar-he knew better than to drive home drunk, he even told Walter as much. "Besides," the father had said, "sometimes it's nice to get out into the fresh air-into the world." Reports from the bar show that the father left at roughly 11:15pm , the first 9-11 was recorded at 11:55pm . 40-minutes, the amount of time that it would take for a drunk to stagger a little over a mile.

The father claims he vomited on the way home. An officer has already reported this to be true. "Whenever I throw up it sobers me right up," read Walter's notes. "I walked down the alleyway and saw some punk in a costume trying to break inta Larry's car-Larry's my neighbor. I hear about all these freakos and crazies that like to dress up and cause trouble, so I decided to not take any chances. So what I did was snuck upstairs to grab something to scare him off with. I saw my crowbar lying out-thought it was a little strange for it to be just sitting there, but grabbed it anyway."

Walter looked over the first 9-11 report. The caller reported a clown assaulting a little boy in a cape. Soon there were more calls, all reporting the same thing-a clown mercilessly destroying a little boy.

"When I got back with the crowbar I found him trying to take the wheels off of some rich cad's car. So I hit him across the back of the head with the crowbar. Th-there was a thud and crunch. He went to the ground and I hit him a few other times. Then-then it just went blank. He started yelling at me, but I couldn't hear what he was saying.

Walter continued comparing the 9-11 reports to his own notes. Some of the callers reported hearing the boy scream "Dad!" others report the assailant screaming: "I'm going to give you a spanking! A spanking you'll never forget!"

"I kept swinging until I realized that I was hitting the street below. Then I looked down and saw the costume. It wasn't some super-hero outfit. It was just-just a normal circus performers get-up. The kind used by acrobats. Then-then I realized who it was and collapsed. I couldn't see his face-but I knew it was him. I remember sitting down, hearing the crowbar echo against the pavement as I dropped it. I could taste blood and my own vomit. Everything went blank-I just sat there until you cops showed up."

Walter got to the end of his notes. He had taken a word for word confession from the father, and other officers were now collecting statements from other witnesses. A team arrived and started cleaning up the viscous material in the street-the body had already been carted away for an autopsy, not that one was really needed. He folded his old blue notebook closed and started getting things ready to leave-paperwork to sign and orders to delegate. "Sometimes," Walter thought, "there is no mystery."

As Walter started to walk home he passed by the patrol car. The father still sat huddled over in the back of the car. His head bobbed back and forth as he sobbed to himself. Walter could hear the soft mumbles of sorrow as he walked past the car.

"Funny," thought Walter, "how crying can sometimes sound like laughter."

End Chapter One.

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"Hey buddy! Get the hell off the wall before I shoot you down!" yelled Job Randall-Walter's partner and junk-food supplier, not that he ever shared. Walter also kept Job around for public relations-after all, Job was a self-proclaimed people-person, which was more than Walter could say.

In twenty-three years Walter had only ever eaten at five restaurants. It's not that he didn't like to go out-in fact, he only ever ate out. It was just that, well, he only really liked those five restaurants. Why take the risk if you might not like it? So, instead of tasting the city's vast assortment of cultured cuisine, Walter ate at his five favorite restaurants. For breakfast he would go to a diner down the street. Sometimes they were closed-like on holidays. However, Walter usually prepared by purchasing meals to go days before Christmas, Thanksgiving, or whatever. For lunch he had a favorite sandwich shop. A girl used to work there that he liked, but felt uncomfortable saying anything to her besides "No mustard please"-what if he made her feel awkward? Then he wouldn't ever be able to eat there again, and would have to find another restaurant to go to. When he didn't feel like a sandwich there was always Chinese-but usually he saved that for dinner and big cases. Also for lunch (and possibly dinner) was a burger shack that Job had gotten him hooked on. Walter didn't really want to go there at first, but Job claimed a doctor had insisted for health reasons-and what right did Walter have to defy a doctor's orders? The final place Walter would eat was a little Greek restaurant on the other side of the city. Really, he had never been interested in Greek food-but a case brought him to the restaurant. It seems that a chef was murdered with a lamb-skewer. While Job and Walter had been investigating the case curiosity got the better of him, and he had to know what a "gyro" was-and how to pronounce it. He was pleasantly surprised, but decided never to take that risk again.

Walter always tried to avoid places that only served fried food. Sure, the burger shack, the diner, sometimes the Greek and Chinese, and occasionally the sandwich shop were an exception to the rule, but he tried to eat something with vegetables whenever he remembered. Walter also tried to avoid food that required a fork. Once, when he was a child, he witnessed his mother stab a fork into his father's shoulder. There was no real explanation why it happened, nor did anything come from it-except for Walter's fork-fear. Since that point Walter always tried to eat food that offered alternative utensil options-like chopsticks or finger-food. At first the diner posed a problem, then he discovered breakfast burritos and "morning-grilled sandwiches".

The suspect-who was now dangling from the ledge of a building like a monkey hangs from a tree-yelled something down to them.

"What'd he say?" asked Job.

"He says that he was bitten by a radioactive fly, and now he has the inherited the powers of the insect. He wants us to call him 'Fly Guy'." answered Walter.

"Fly Guy? What the hell kind of name is that? Didn't you know the supers with rhyming names always end up dead? Or splattered on main street-now GET DOWN HERE BEFORE I HAVE SOMEONE THROW YOU OFF."

"Technically flies don't bite."

"What?"

"They don't bite. They spit up digestive juices onto organic material and slurp up the result. Some spiders do it as well."

"You hear that buzz-brains? FLYS DON 'T BITE-THEY PUKE. You should change your name to the Amazing Up-Chuck. What'd he say?"

"He says that he can now cling to walls, see the world in the spectrum of segmentation, and he is fairly certain that he can fly."

"Fly? He thinks he can fly? GO AHEAD BUDDY! GIVE IT A SHOT! I'll call the street sweeper."

Job really was a good cop. He could analyze the moment, and his heart really was in the job-but more importantly he could keep up with Walter, well sometimes. Job had been with the force for a few years before Walter showed up, so Job saw him as a sort of mentor for Walter. In many ways Job felt that he was Walter's guide and protector-a safety net of sorts.

"You know what Walter? Here's what I don't get-why do we always end up with these damn suits?"

'Suits' was another derogatory name for people with super-powers. Sometimes they were just called "supers", but the world had yet to create a true politically correct term for them yet, so slang served to be the best lexicon.

"Don't they think we have anything better to do? Like a drive-by-or just a normal homicide. Man, I'd kill for a drive-by about now. But no, ever since that guy in hotel and the chick in the river we've been stuck on spandex-duty."

"I guess they just think we're the best for the job, that's all."

"Yeah, right. We don't treat suits no differently from anyone else. Nothing really special about them when it gets down to it. Just cause a guy can shoot lasers from his eyes doesn't mean he doesn't go home and beat the crap out of his wife."

"Maybe that's why they pick us."

"What?"

"For the jobs."

"No-not that. What'd he just say? HEY BUDDY-SPEAK UP! MY PARTNER AND I DON 'T HAVE SUPER-INSECT HEARING!"

"He said he's going to try flying now."

"Great. Just what we need-some bozo launching his corpse into rush hour traffic. I SWEAR TO GOD-IF YOU SO MUCH AS MOVE FROM THAT SPOT I'M GOING TO PISTOL WHIP YOUR MOTHER! HEY! STAY WHERE YOU ARE - LOOK AT THIS, I'M GONNA SMACK HER RIGHT ACROSS THE BACK OF THE HEAD."

"He doesn't really mean it ma'am, this is just a negotiating tactic."

"FRIES IN MEAT SAUCE I DON 'T MEAN IT! GO AHEAD AND PUSH YOUR LUCK BUDDY."

The crowd gave a simultaneous "Gruh." The noise was partially a hum, an intake of air, and drooling all at once. It was quiet enough so that everyone could hear the crash down the street. The noise they heard sounded a lot like a guy who just leapt from the side of a building hitting pavement.

"Crap. Knew I should've called the street sweeper ahead of time."

End Chapter Two.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Normally Walter Cratchet and Job Randall didn't respond to traffic violations. After all, that was rookie stuff-not detective work. However, recently the two gumshoes have been the city's resident "Super-cops". Whenever there was someone in a costume, Walter and Job got the call.

An officer was waiting for the two of them on the side of the road. The officer, a young man in his twenties, was even shorter than Walter-which really meant a lot. Sitting perched on the edge of the curb was a man in a bright red jumpsuit made of tight fitting spandex. The spandex-clad man was tapping his foot with aggravated annoyance and impatience.

"You know I can just bust through these handcuffs, right? I'm only staying here as a courtesy to you guys."

"Hey-keep it down." Replied the officer.

Job scoffed and mumbled "Rookie" under his smirk.

The man in red was just sitting there, but if you stared at him long enough Walter noticed that he would occasionally fade away for a moment-as though he were only a blip in existence.

"Alright-what seems to be the problem," Job asked.

"Yeah, what seems to be the problem?" mocked the man in red.

"Hey! I ask the questions. Keep it down before I knock you between your pansy-red booties."

"Well-I was just doing some paperwork-"

"Eating doughnuts."

"That's strike two-continue officer."

"As I was saying-I was just doing some paperwork, watching my speedometer when suddenly it flashes 107. At first I thought it was an error in the system-but then I saw this guy booking it up the street."

"I was hardly booking it, just going for a morning jog-nice and easy, good for the ticker."

At times like these Walter found it best to let Job do all the talking. Really, he had nothing to say. On the car ride over Walter accidentally sat in one of Job's raspberry-filled pastries. Walter imagined that the soap and water would probably not remove the stain-so it meant another trip to the dry-cleaners for his London Fog trench. This is why Walter liked to walk everywhere-because you never had to pick raspberry filling out of your butt afterwards.

"Listen-rookie," Job gave a little smile, "this really isn't my department."

"But, but I thought you guys dealt with-you know."

"No, rookie-you were wrong. You can't give a guy a speeding ticket for jogging."

"Told you so." Spat the man in red.

"Strike three-just because you can run like a chicken on crack doesn't mean I'm not afraid to kick you in the eggs. Now listen rookie-next time you feel the urge to call us out here, make sure you have a good reason-or a hot babe with an extra large pepperoni pizza. Got that?"

"Yeah."

"Now get outta here. Scram!"

The young small officer moved nervously towards his car and got into his patrol car and quickly drove off.

"I think he stuck his tongue out at you before he drove off." Said the man in red.

"Yeah? That bought him a nice box to the ears."

Job and Walter started to walk back to the car.

"Hey! Hey wait a minute-what about these handcuffs?"

Job leaned against the inside of the open car door and looked at the man in the radiant-red body suit.

"What about them? You're a smart ked-find someone to take them off. Oh yeah, and slow down when you're running around town-this ain't a racetrack."

With that Job got into the car and drove away.

"Hey! Hey! Get back here! Did anyone tell you that you have raspberry filling on your butt!"

End Chapter Three

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Walter's day off. Really these seemed to be few and far between-as though they were some strange prize that deserved to be cherished. So, naturally-he wasted the time doing trivial and mundane things.

Walter sat alone on a park bench. Once he sat on this very same bench with some "high and mighty" reporter discussing a case-off the record, of course. Now, he just sat and fed the birds. When Walter was a child his family lived not far from a duck pond. It was more of a gash in the ground created to avert rainwater gone awry than anything else, but it served its purpose. It seems that some time in the past the irrigation system that had been set in place to move the water around had failed to do its job-so now a large collection of water just sat undisturbed and undistributed. Walter's father had blamed it on poor engineering-"Never send an engineer to do an engineer's job when an architect's around to do it for him!" he used to say. Walter's dad was regularly unemployed.

It seemed so hard for Walter's dad to keep any sort of job-which was odd for Walter who has only ever been employed once, and still is. From time to time Walter's dad seemed to be on a steady role-as though he was really ready to make it in the big world. Then, he would get an idea in his head-a family-run restaurant, or investment in cabbage. Suddenly the entire world would collapse around Walter's family as his father spun topsy-turvy towards his new goal in life. It always ended in the same way-collapse, failure, and another new scheme.

Whenever Walter's father lost a job he would spend a few weeks alone trying to sort things out. For Walter, many of these moments were still some of his fondest. Walter and his dad would walk down to the pond and just sit there for hours at a time, baking in the sunlight feeding the ducks. Every morning they would search the kitchen-to his mother's dismay-for any random assortment of food they could think of to feed the ducks. Scraps of cheese, moldy bread, left over spaghetti, or Vienna sausages-anything to feed the ducks. In retrospect, most of these items were not even fit for human consumption-let alone a duck living on the side of the road, but they didn't seem to complain. For those few weeks Walter shared the adventure with his father of just living-not worrying about petty things, their only concern being the passing of the hour hand. Then, one morning, Walter's dad would be gone-out looking for his new job, some new scheme-and the trip to the pond would end once again.

As Walter sat on his park bench feeding the birds he could feel the sun beating on the back of his neck-crisping his skin like bubbling bacon. You rarely got nice days in the city anymore-what, with the smog and pollution. However, it was nice to take advantage of a clear day-to remember what life means. Walter's father was long dead and buried well before terms like "smog" held any real baring in the world-a time where enjoying the world meant minding the petty things.

End Chapter Four.

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"Sometimes there is no mystery."
-From the notes of Walter Cratchet

Walter sits at the counter of a small, back alley burger shack. The only people that know about this place are those that are unafraid of wrong turns and one-way streets. It cannot be found in any directory, and when you ask about it people simply give you a bland shrug. Those that do know about it will only give you vague directions like "Yeah, it's down there a ways-past that street, the one with the stop sign," or "Oh yeah, my brother Phil eats there-I think you just take a couple of lefts until you see it." The only way to find this place is to know where it is-which makes sense to Walter, because that's how you find everything.

In front of Walter sits a half eaten burger and some steak fries salted with an unknown seasoning. It is red-ish in color, yet looks strangely similar to pepper. Walter had ordered lemonade-but what he got was a cup full of sliced lemons, tap water, and a packet of sugar-substitute. Sometimes, if you didn't eat your burger fast enough you could see the grease spill out from the still red inside of the patty. If it were a cold day the oils and fats would congeal into a viscous substance like snot. Really, you can't get a better burger anywhere in town.

The smell of apple fritters quickly encroaches on Walter's sense. He moves slightly to his left to allow Job the open seat there. Job muscles his way in to the counter, squishing between Walter and a large hairy construction worker in a stained white athletic shirt.

"Hey come on man! Give me some room here!" says Job.

The construction worker grunts through his thick curly facial hair and slides to the side.

"Much better."

In one motion Job gestures "Are you done with that?" and grabs hold of the basket containing Walter's leftovers.

"Oh yeah, nice and greasy-just the way papa likes it."

"You know Job, I was thinking about something."

"Yeah? Imagine that."

"I think you got it right-why they call us all the time to deal with their 'special' cases-it's just that, they think the cases are different than normal ones."

"Yeah, but they're not."

"Exactly, but they don't get that-not yet at least."

"Why not? Are they stupid?"

"No-just unsure. They don't think that someone with extraordinary powers could have ordinary problems. They don't think about them as humans."

"Yeah? That's pretty dumb."

Job chokes down the final piece of burger-plunging them down into his gullet with a handful of seasoned fries and a splash of lemon water.

"Oh man-you actually drink this stuff?"

Walter shrugged.

"Wow, it tastes like drain cleaner and powdered coffee."

Job drinks the rest of the lemonade.

"You know, Walter-maybe if they start taking some of these cases they will start seeing it like you and I do-ordinary people doing stupid stuff."

"I hope so."

"Yeah, me too-I'm sure tired of them calling me all the time just because some guy likes to throw trash can lids at purse-snatchers in the name of liberty."

"Him again?"

Walter and Job walk away from the burger shack-down some unknown one-way street to who knows where.

"Yeah, said something about Nazis."

Walter shakes his head silently.

End Chapter Five.

End Just Another Day.