by Baron Sord
I tried to tune Sanjay out, but sometimes his words burrowed into my brain like evil earwigs hell-bent on turning me into a worker zombie.
All hail the hive mind.
In an optimistic sort of way.
Sanjay muttered along softly, “…and don’t forget, all input fields for Form 1097-BTC walk-through page have to be re-tested.”
“We already tested them,” Clifton said.
“The IRS changed them again,” Sanjay droned.
“Again,” Clifton huffed drowsily. He sounded like he was ready for a nap, and he didn’t even look tired.
It was the job.
Sanjay glanced at his notepad. “We’ll also have to re-test the walk-through pages for Forms 1098-C, 1098-E, 1098-MA, 1098-Q, and 1098-T.”
I noticed Rene Dominguez was playing Candy Crush Soda Saga on his phone under the conference room table. His phone was under the table not because he was worried about getting caught. Sanjay didn’t care. Rene did it more out of respect for the rest of us.
That said, I wanted to ask Rene out loud what IRS form he was checking on his phone, but I knew it could just as easily be me playing Mobile Strike or Fortnite under the table if the screen on my latest Robot wasn’t so cracked.
Sanjay droned on, “…and Forms 1099-A, 1099-B, 1099-C, 1099-CAP, 1099-K, 1099-DIV, 1099-G…”
I let out a big yawn that lasted at least 20 seconds. My mouth was wide open.
Clifton flicked something at it. Missed my mouth, but hit my cheek and bounced off. A tightly crumpled piece of paper the size of a BB landed on the table in front of me.
I glared at Clifton.
He stifled a snicker. It was the only sign of life in the entire room.
Sanjay never noticed. He sounded half dead himself.
In actual fact, if it wasn’t for Clifton’s antics, these meetings would have been the death of me.
Sanjay droned and droned.
And droned.
I struggled to stay awake.
And droned…
It didn’t help that Sanjay’s mellow voice was so soothing and hypnotic.
And droned…
My eyelids were getting heavier.
And droned…
I could barely keep them open.
Sanjay said, “You are getting sleepier, Doug…”
What? My eyes popped open.
Sanjay was droning on about forms.
Droning, droning, droning…
My eyelids drifted shut. They weighed a hundred pounds each. There was no way I could keep them open without hydraulic jacks.
“And sleepier,” Sanjay muttered softly.
Again, my eyes popped open.
Sanjay was wearing Lady Liberty’s costume while talking about IRS forms. It looked good on him. The blue masquerade mask went well with his caterpillar mustache. The costume’s cleavage featured his hairy chest.
Clifton wore a circus clown costume with a red nose and curly orange wig. He held up a bicycle horn and honked it by the rubber bulb, “Honk-a! Honk-a!”
Nobody seemed to notice.
Rene wore a rainbow wizard’s hat and rainbow wizard’s robes, and was engrossed in Candy Crush on his phone.
The rest of the staff were covered from head to toe in a variety of cartoon animal mascot costumes like you saw at theme parks or sporting events. All had insane cartoon eyes and insanely gaping smiles. The eagle, the lion, the viking. All wore T-shirts that read Ydiot, Inc.
I thought nothing of it.
Sanjay said, “Doug, does this cape make me look sexy? Would you like to see me dance in it?” He did a twirl and his red, white, and blue cape billowed out around him in slow motion while he laughed maniacally.
Horrified, I gasped as I woke up and tumbled out of my chair like a sack of potatoes. Thudded onto the floor and landed on my back under the table.
If you thought about it, when you were this tired, scratchy berber carpet over cement in a conference room was just as good as a feather bed in a five star hotel. With a blissful smile on my face, I closed my eyes and sighed. The table over my head was perfect for shading out the harsh fluorescent lights in the ceiling.
“Am I boring you, Doug?” Sanjay asked with optimistic humor. He didn’t bother to look under the table.
Clifton chortled to himself.
Rene hid a snicker.
The rest of the staff also pretended not to laugh.
“Sorry.” I crawled back onto my chair with a grunt. Tried to sit up straight and listen intently. It was the hardest thing I had ever done.
By the time 6 o’clock rolled around that day, I think I may have slept an entire 8 hours with my eyes open, all while running a battery of automated tests on the walk-through pages for the IRS forms.
Why was I working here again?
Oh yeah. Because I was broke until my next paycheck.
Arnold was right.
We needed to find a way to monetize the superhero business. I guess if you wanted to be a selfless altruist, you had to be a little bit greedy.
Oh, the irony.
If only there were a way to turn a profit without taking advantage of anyone who didn’t deserve it…
—: Chapter 33 :—
“LOOK OUT!” I shouted as I sprinted toward the dark intersection.
Coming from the opposite direction, a race-ready Porsche 911 GT3 RS was barreling toward a stop sign in downtown La Jolla like a futuristic cruise missile.
It was almost 4:00am and the streets were slick from the late night fog that had rolled in from the ocean.
Unlike yesterday, when I had fallen asleep at YouDoIt, I was wide awake now and this was the real thing.
My super-charged adrenalin was already racing through my veins.
Inching across the crosswalk in an arthritic hobble was an old homeless woman. She appeared oblivious to the approaching 911. It was aiming straight for her.
The driver of the 911 appeared oblivious to the old woman’s presence.
I pistoned my legs as hard as I could.
Thankfully, in this part of La Jolla, with all its trendy shops and tightly-packed million-dollar condos, the speed limit was 25mph on the narrow streets.
That meant the 911 was going slow enough for me to beat it to the intersection, but it was going fast enough to kill.
My adrenalin was pumping so hard, I must’ve hit 45 or even 50 mph as I raced toward the old woman.
The lights from the Porsche washed across both her and me as my feet pounded the asphalt. I was slowing down before I grabbed the woman because if I yanked her off her feet at 50 mph, that would be as bad as letting the Porsche hit her at 25.
Approaching the old woman at an angle, I reduced my speed to around 10, planning a vector that would take her to the side of the Porsche.
The 911 had already entered the intersection without stopping and was heading straight for us.
It had not slowed down in the slightest.
Was the driver blind?
The headlights blazed in my eyes like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Not for me, for the old woman. If the 911 hit her now, she would be dead before she hit the ground.
Everything went slow motion and time stretched out as I swept her off her feet, kicked off the ground, and spiraled us both through the air. The front bumper of the Porsche was less than 3 feet away from hitting us as we drifted taffy-slow out of its way.
2 feet.
My eyes flicked down toward my legs and hers.
1 foot.
The 911 was going to hit us.
I grit my teeth in anticipation.
There was nothing I could do now.
Clip!
The bumper grazed the woman’s flailing leg and her foot flopped with a cracking response.
Bam!
I landed on my back and slid across asphalt with the woman cradled protectively in my arms.
SCREECH!
The 911 hit the brakes and fishtailed past us on the wet road. Eventually, it stop
ped.
One hand wrapped around the woman, I put a hand on the ground and stood us both up, holding her torso against mine. Carried her to the side of the street and set her gently on the hood of a parked car. Ran to the Porsche.
The driver’s door was open. The driver climbed out on wobbly legs. He was drunk and wore flashy nightclub clothes that were as disheveled as his hair and the startled expression on his face. He was the epitome of a Porsche-driving douche.
“WHAT THE FUCK!” I shouted with rage. “YOU HIT THAT WOMAN!” I was in Porsche Douche’s face.
“I didn’t see her!” Douche whined, cowering and blowing his boozy breath into my snarling mouth.
“No shit, Sherlock! You could’ve killed her! She needs to go to the hospital!” I pulled my Robot phone out of my pocket to call 911. The one with the cracked screen. Which was now more cracked. Now it wouldn’t turn on. Shit. I must’ve landed on it. Damn it! I screamed at Porsche Douche, “GIVE ME YOUR PHONE! I NEED TO CALL 911!”
His eyes bulged, “Don’t do that! I’m loaded, man! They’ll take away my license!”
I threw him against his Porsche and dug through the pockets of his slacks until I found a phone. Thumbed the button. The screen lit up. Password protected. “What’s the fucking password?!” I grabbed his neck and squeezed.
He shook his head.
“TELL ME!”
“I’ll pay you! Please don’t call 911!”
“Pay me?” At that point I remembered I was wearing my black lycra ninja mask, as usual. I was also wearing black gloves, a lightweight long-sleeve black shirt, black cargo pants, and black boots. This time of night, I definitely looked like a mugger. For all Porsche Douche knew, the entire thing with the old woman was a setup.
“I’ll pay you!” With shaking hands, Douche pulled out his wallet and opened it. It bristled with hundreds. “Here! Take everything I have! I can’t get another DUI! They’ll throw me in jail!”
I looked at the money in the wallet.
I needed money.
But I couldn’t take someone’s money. I wasn’t a thief.
“Take it!” he whimpered. “Just don’t call 911! Please!”
This guy deserved jail for what he’d just done. But I was more concerned about taking the homeless woman to the hospital. I didn’t know what they might charge to fix her leg, so I took the money. Folded the entire wad of hundreds into my pocket. Handed him back his phone, which he pocketed. Then I grabbed Douche by his tie and dragged him over to the old woman. “See what you did?”
She was moaning on the hood of the parked car where I’d left her.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered.
“Oh shit is right,” I grumbled. “I’m taking her to the hospital. In your car.”
“What?!” Porsche Douche gasped.
“Find your own way home.” I carefully lifted the old woman and carried her in my arms to the Porsche. Laid her gently on the hood.
“You can’t put her there!” Douche protested. “You’ll scratch the paint!”
“Shut the fuck up!” I growled.
He cowered.
I leaned inside the open driver’s door to pop the passenger door open. Picked up the woman and put her in the passenger seat.
Porsche Douche dove into the driver’s seat.
I leapt over the roof and came down toward the street between the open door and the frame of the Porsche as Douche was reaching for the door handle. For a split slow-motion second, I considered landing one shoe on his elbow and breaking it, but I didn’t.
He yanked the door closed against my back.
“Nice try,” I smirked.
He let go of the door, grabbed the steering wheel, and hammered the accelerator.
I grabbed the doorframe and jumped forward as the car started to move. There was a discombobulating moment as the 911 shot forward, taking me with it. Dangling with my legs half in the air, I did a sideways one-arm pull-up and threw my free arm around Douche’s neck. Got the toes of my shoes on the open doorframe.
The hand of my arm around Douche’s neck grabbed the headrest behind him, putting my bulging bicep in his throat. It was the only weapon I had at the moment, so I slammed it into his neck and shouted, “STOP THE FUCKING CAR!”
I kept my bicep tight on his windpipe.
He took his foot off the gas and we coasted to a stop.
The second my feet were on the ground, I released the headrest. Then I palmed Porsche Douche by the head, hooking my fingers over his ear as I pulled him out of the car and banged him against the slick black street.
I grabbed him by the lapels, stood him up, slammed him against the side of the Porsche, and went through his pockets for a second time. Found his phone. Crushed it in my gloved hand and jammed it back in his pocket.
“What’d you do that for?”
I grunted in response. He didn’t need to know that I didn’t want him calling 911 and telling them his car was stolen. Who knew what story he’d concoct for the cops that assiduously avoided the topic of him almost killing the old homeless woman because he was too drunk to drive. I checked his other pockets for weapons. Didn’t find any. Said, “I’m taking your car.”
“What?! You can’t take my car!”
“Shut the fuck up. You should be thanking me for not calling the cops on your drunk fucking ass.” I grabbed his tie and yanked him onto the sidewalk.
He followed, arms flailing.
I gave him a shove and he stumbled into the damp grass strip and sat down.
“Stay there until you sober up, dumbfuck.” At this point, I was ten miles past pissed off.
I strode back to the 911 and sat down behind the wheel.
The old woman was moaning in the passenger seat.
I closed my door and said calmly, “It’s okay. I’m taking you to the hospital. You’re going to be okay.”
“Fubba da muh gumma,” she mumbled.
“Hold on,” I said. Adjusted the mirrors and put the Porsche into gear. Drove carefully, not wanting to attract the attention of the cops.
We arrived at Scripps Mercy Hospital 20 minutes later. I drove the 911 up to the Ambulance entrance and parked. When I jumped out, an EMT drinking coffee beside an ambulance said, “You can’t park here.”
“Tow it,” I said and opened the passenger door. Lifted the old woman out. “She just got hit by a car.”
“You hit her?” the EMT said with a hint of judgement.
“No,” I glared at him from behind my ninja mask. “Which way do I go?”
“Through here.” He led me into the Emergency & Trauma Center. He found a wheelchair for me and I set the woman in the seat. He said, “I’ll take it from here.”
I hesitated a moment. Remembered I was wearing a ninja mask and all black. I couldn’t stay here. There were cameras everywhere. I said, “She was hit in the ankle by that Porsche outside.”
“Nice car,” the EMT smirked. “How long you had it?”
I realized the truth was the best approach. “I stole it from the guy who hit her.”
“What?” He was surprised.
“Check the registration.”
“Tell it to the cops,” he said with irritation.
At that moment, a big guy in an SDPD uniform came strolling over, holding a coffee cup. “There a problem?”
“Ask this guy,” the EMT said before rolling the old woman down the corridor. To her, he said softly, “Don’t worry, lady. We’ll get you taken care of.” He never looked back.
Coffee Cop said to me, “Mind taking your mask off?”
“Yes,” I barked.
“Sir, calm down. This is a hospital.”
“I am calm,” I grumbled.
He thought, Not another one. Not tonight. My shift is almost over.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “It’s been a long night.”
“What’s with the mask?”
“Long story,” I sighed.
“You mind telling me what happened? With the lady?”
I
turned and pointed out the doors to the Porsche, “See that car?”
“Yeah. That yours?”
“No. I stole it.”
“You what?” Coffee Cop chuckled.
“The guy driving it hit that old homeless woman in the wheelchair.” I pointed. “When he stopped, I threw him on the sidewalk, put her in the car, and drove it here. He was drunk. I smelled it on his breath.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Slow down. What happened?”
I repeated everything in more detail.
He nodded, “That’s quite a story.”
“It’s the truth.”
“You sure?” He sipped his coffee and gave me a sideways look.
I sighed, “Do you watch the news?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you know who the Masked Jumper is?” I wanted to say Wildfire, but nobody would know who that was. Better to slum it and go with Colette Spear’s ill-conceived moniker.
Coffee Cop frowned, “He that guy who put out that brush fire last week?”
“On Friday. He also jumped over the El Cajon sign and put out that car fire at San Diego Comic Con two weeks ago.”
Coffee Cop laughed, “That guy is a trip.”
“That guy is me,” I said.
“Whaaat?” he smiled doubtfully.
I nodded. “Do me a favor. Run the plates on that Porsche. I left the driver sitting on the sidewalk back in La Jolla. On Eads near Silverado. I don’t know if he owns the car, but he was definitely driving it.” I partially regretted saying it because, for all I knew, SDPD would find Porsche Douche, and Douche would tell them and the media that the Masked Jumper had mugged him. “I need to go.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Coffee Cop said. “You can’t leave your car here.”
“It’s not mine,” I said with irritation. “Run the plates.”
Out of nowhere, a fresh distress call knifed a clean line through my mind:
…Please don’t kill me! I’ll do anything! Please! Pleeeeease!
I grunted, “I have to go. Someone is about to get attacked.”
“Whaaat?!”
“I have to stop it! They’re going to get stabbed!”
“Stabbed?!” He put his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol.
“Or cut! I don’t know! Something with a knife!” I turned go.
