by Baron Sord
“Where you going so fast?” he asked as he fell into step beside her.
“To my car,” she grumbled.
“I’ll walk you,” he grinned. He sure was cute.
“No you won’t,” Kristy snorted. “I can walk myself.”
“Then I’ll get your door.”
“I can do that too,” she smirked.
Do you see those eyes?! K-Cray beamed. Shining like star sapphires!
Hush up!
Kristy’s Audi was right there. She considered going past it until she lost Muscle Man. No, she didn’t have time. She needed to start writing Lady Liberty #4, and she had zero idea where the story was going.
She walked up to the driver door.
“Let me get that!” Muscle Man grinned and dashed past her.
She stopped short.
He had his hand on the handle. “Unlock it and I’ll open it for you.”
“Who are you?” Kristy giggled despite her annoyance.
“Kirk.”
“Captain?”
“What?” he chuckled. He obviously didn’t know who Captain Kirk was.
“Where’s your Venom?”
“My what?” he laughed and thought, She sure talks weird.
Kristy groaned her annoyance, “Your Venom comic? You were looking at it at the comic store?”
“Oh, that. I was…” only in there because I saw you in the window.
Kristy rolled her eyes.
“I was…” he chuckled. “I’ll get it later. I didn’t want you getting away. What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?” Kristy said without missing a beat.
“I told you. Kirk.”
“But not Captain?” she quipped.
“What’re you talking about?”
“How can you not know Star Trek?!” Kristy laughed. “Captain effing Kirk! He’s a pop culture icon already! Please tell me you know who that is.”
“Yeah, I know who that is.” Who the fuck is Captain Kirk?
Kristy groaned, “You don’t know anything about comics, do you?”
Kirk frowned, “Course I do. All kinds a stuff.”
“Pfft,” Kristy smirked. “Do you even know anything about comic books?”
“I told you, all kinds,” he grinned, emphasizing his perfect teeth.
“Yeah, like what?” Kristy challenged, unable to resist making him squirm.
“Let’s see, there’s Superman and Batman. They did that movie together. That was great. And the Avengers! Another great movie.”
“I meant the comic books,” Kristy smirked.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he chuckled.
“No, you’re talking about movies about comic book characters.”
“Yeah. The Marvel Universe. I know all about it. That’s comics.”
“No…” Kristy smiled indulgently, “…comics are printed on paper. People draw them. Other people collect them. It’s a thing.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Kirk smiled, pouring on the charm.
“Have you ever even been to a comic book store? I mean, before a minute ago?”
“Course I have. Everybody’s been to a comic book store.”
“Oh yeah? Which one do you go to?”
“That one,” he nodded back toward Treasure Trove.
“Oh, that one,” Kristy nodded agreeably. “Do you always lie this much, Kirk?”
“What?” he chuckled, betraying a hint of embarrassment.
“You’re lying, Kirk,” Kristy said with rising annoyance. “Howard didn’t recognize you.”
“I go when Howard isn’t there.”
Kristy scowled, “Howard’s there every day.”
“Not every day,” Kirk chuckled. “There’s that other guy on the weekends.”
Kristy laughed, “You’re lying, Kirk! Howard owns the store!”
“He can’t be there every day. I’m telling you, I see that other guy on weekends.”
“You don’t give up, do you?” Kristy said in disbelief.
“I’d never give up on you,” he winked.
Kristy sighed, “Give it a rest, Kirk. The only other person who’s ever worked at Treasure Trove is Howard’s wife. You said it was a guy.”
“Oh, I meant his wife. I know her.”
“What’s her name?” Kristy challenged.
“Uhhh… Mary? No, Linda?”
Kristy grimaced in anger, “It’s Sonia. You’re a liar, Kirk. Now get away from my car or I’ll move you myself.” Kristy charged forward.
Kirk danced back a step.
Kristy opened her door, keeping her back to Kirk.
Oh, fuck! he thought. That fucking ass is too fucking much! I gotta have me a piece of that ass! All I gotta do is reach out and—
K-Cray tossed her comics inside her car, spun around and punched Kirk on his chest bone.
WHAM!
“Oof!” Kirk went stumbling back, eyes wide, gasping, and arms flailing. He tripped on his boots and sat down on the street behind Kristy’s Audi, then fall back on his hands.
SCREECH!
An SUV slammed on the breaks.
“Oh my God!” Kristy gasped, watching in super-enhanced slow-motion as the SUV skidded forward, stopping literally one inch from hitting Kirk’s head.
Kristy felt terrible. Rushed over to Kirk.
“Are you okay?!” she pleaded.
Kirk was struggling to draw a breath.
“Huf, huf, huf!” Can’t get my air! he thought. She hits like a fucking truck!
“I’m so sorry!” Kristy whined, feeling awful. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard!”
“WHAT THE FUCK, BUDDY!” a man shouted gruffly as he launched himself from the SUV. “YOU JUMPED RIGHT OUT IN FRONT OF ME!” The driver was big and beefy. Not cut and muscled like Kirk, but he was bigger than Kirk. Like, professional wrestler big.
“It was my fault!” Kristy said.
Beef Head looked her over. Looked at Kirk. “No, it was this fucking pretty boy!” Beef Head’s mind exploded with irrational anger. He wound up his big arm, intending to whack Kirk across the back of his head from behind with his massive open palm. Kirk’d never see it coming. Worse, Beef Head looked big enough to give poor Kirk a concussion if he tried hard enough. Based on Beef Head’s instant anger, that’s exactly what he planned on doing.
As Beef Head’s tree-trunk arm came swinging around, Kristy shot forward. Punched Beef Head’s wrist right on the tendons where they led into his hand.
CRACK!
Beef Head’s arm went whipping backward, spinning his entire body around. He slammed chest-first into the front of his SUV with a BANG! Slid off and flopped backward onto the street. Rolled over and sat up to shake it off.
The arm Kristy’d hit was spasming badly from the wrist to the tips of his fingers.
Beef Head stared at his hand like it was possessed.
“What’d you do to my fucking hand?” His voice was faraway, confused, and a little bit frightened.
“Get out of here,” Kristy growled at him.
Beef Head gazed at her strangely.
“GO!” Kristy barked.
She helped Kirk to his feet and walked him onto the sidewalk. “Are you okay?”
“Phew,” Kirk sighed. “That was… What’d you do to that guy?”
“He was gonna hit you.”
“He was?”
“From behind,” Kristy nodded. “When you weren’t looking.”
Kirk glared over at Beef Head, who was pushing himself clumsily to his feet because his right hand wasn’t working yet.
Kirk hissed, “I oughta kick that guy’s fucking ass.”
“No, don’t,” Kristy said. “Trust me, it’s not worth it.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Kirk said. Thought, Now I look like a fucking pussy. If my chest didn’t hurt so damn much, I might do something about that fucking dick.
“No, Kirk. Trust me, just let it go. It’s never worth it.” Just ask Bouncing Brock.
“Yeah,
” Kirk nodded.
Beef Head finally climbed in his SUV and drove slowly away.
Kirk said, “If that dude was gonna blindside me, you saved my ass. He’s huge!”
“It was nothing.”
“No, let me buy you dinner or something.”
Kristy looked him over.
Kirk was gorge. There was no denying it.
Those dreamy sapphire eyes?
And that sly smile?
He was K-Cray’s type and Kristy’s.
She heaved a sigh, “You’re a liar, Kirk. I don’t date liars.”
“Come oooon,” he laughed endearingly, his voice gravely and full of goodwill. “I won’t tell any lies after today. That was my last. I’m turning over a new leaf.” He flashed a charming grin, one that had obviously charmed the panties off of countless women in Kirk’s no doubt sordid past.
“Oh, God, Kirk…” Kristy groaned, tipping her head back and looking up at the blue San Diego sky, “…if you only knew how many times I’ve heard that, you’d realize how ridiculous it sounds. I have to go. Sorry about hitting you.”
Kristy climbed in her Audi and drove away.
She saw Kirk standing on the sidewalk in her rearview mirror with a puzzled look on his face.
He thought, What’d I do wrong?
Kristy rolled her eyes and drove home.
You know who wasn’t a liar?
Doug Moore wasn’t a liar.
He was the kind of guy who’d tell the truth even if it killed him.
Honest to a fault, or whatever the saying was.
That’s why he’d never date Kristy or K-Cray.
“That’s it…” Kristy grumbled in defeat. “…I’m joining a convent and becoming a nun.”
—: Chapter 33 :—
Remember THE BANK BREAKER, my metaphorical arch-nemesis?
He was about to strike again.
Did you ever watch that old 1960s Batman TV show?
The colorfully wacky one?
Remember the overly dramatic narrator?
He would always start things off saying something like:
“Meanwhile, at the Joker’s hideout…”
Imagine that voice.
—: o o o :—
“Meanwhile, at THE BANK BREAKER’S hideout…”
Picture an immense mansion shaped like a dollar sign lying on its back. You only see the shape of the design from the air. Every topiary hedge surrounding the mansion is also trimmed to resemble a dollar sign. So is the swimming pool.
The mansion is covered on the outside and wall-papered on the inside with sheets of uncut $100 bills stolen from the U.S. Treasury.
Inside, THE BANK BREAKER sits in his dollar-sign-shaped throne — with the dollar sign standing up. The throne is adorned with smaller dollar signs all around. Every square inch of it is papered over in $100 bills, as are all the furnishings throughout the mansion. Even the $100-covered-fireplace contains burning logs made of rolled up $100s.
THE BANK BREAKER doesn’t care. He has cash to spare.
Throughout the mansion, everything from doorstops to dinner plates to light fixtures and pillowcases are decorated in $$$.
And more $$$.
$$$, $$$, and $$$.
You get the picture.
On the wall above the throne is the engraved portrait of Benjamin Franklin you see on the face of every $100 bill.
Sitting in the throne is THE BANK BREAKER himself. He got rid of his orange jumpsuit as soon as he broke out of Federal Prison. Now, he wears a three-piece suit made of — you guessed it — $100 bills sewn together, 1500 of them in total (including his tie), giving the suit a cash value of $150,000.
Standing to either side of THE BANK BREAKER’s dollar-sign throne, are two babes in dollar-sign bikinis, endlessly caressing him and his suit while cooing and giggling at everything he says. If you guessed that these ladies share THE BANK BREAKER’s dollar-sign-shaped bed with him every night, you would be correct.
Scattered lounging throughout the room are THE BANK BREAKER’s henchman, who wear plain green 2-piece suits that match the green ink used for the Department of the Treasury symbol on the $1.
Each henchman wears a small enamel lapel pin. Featured on each man’s pin is a number in the same font used on US currency: $1, $2, $5, $10, $20, or $50.
Obviously, the pin any given man wears denotes his rank in THE BANK BREAKER’s criminal syndicate. The higher the dollar value, the higher the rank. Only his lone right-hand man standing near the throne wears the $50. Four others wear $20s, and so on down the chain of command. As you would expect, the many dozens of men working throughout the mansion who wear the $1 pins are the red-shirt cannon fodder goon squad.
At the moment, THE BANK BREAKER is seething where he sits in his throne:
“I’m gonna get that Doug Moore! I’ll take every last dollar he has, or my name isn’t THE BANK BREAKER!”
Popping her gum, one of the $$$ bikini-clad babes blows a mint-green bubble and giggles, “What about his change, boss? Will you take his pennies and nickels and dimes too?”
“And his quartahs,” the other bikini babe giggles with a sly smile. “Don’t forget his quartahs.”
One of the doofus henchman wearing a $1 lapel pin says, “What about half-dollahs, boss? Them’s coins too.”
THE BANK BREAKER replies heatedly, “Anything in Doug Moore’s possession minted by the U.S. Treasury will soon be mine! All of it mine!”
Doofus asks, “Hey, Boss? What about his bank accounts? That’s just numbers. The Treasury don’t print no numbers.”
“DO I PAY YOU TO THINK?!” THE BANK BREAKER challenges with intense irritation.
“No, but—”
THE BANK BREAKER cuts him off, saying, “Correct! I do not! We will simply go to whichever bank Doug Moore uses, and demand at gunpoint that the teller withdrawal all of Doug’s money from his accounts and give it to us in the form of crisp new $100 dollar bills!”
Doofus chuckles, “Good thinking, boss!”
Mutters of agreement from the rest of the men lounging in the throne room.
THE BANK BREAKER nods with satisfaction while wringing his fists together and grumbling, “I swore I’d take my revenge someday, Doug Moore! BEWARE, FOR I SHALL STRIKE WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT!”
—: o o o :—
Two days after coming home, Arnold started calling me Jeeves. He probably waited until then because his parents stayed with us for two days. He was the picture of politeness while they were here. After they left, Arnold called me Jeeves nonstop.
“Jeeves, can you get me a spot of tea?”
“Jeeves, I think my gout is bothering me again. Would you be so kind as to prop my foot up on a pillow?”
“Jeeves, would you turn the bed down? I think it’s time I retire for the eve.”
“The eve?” I said.
“The eve,” he emphasized.
“I didn’t realize gunshot wounds made people British.”
“Funniest thing, old chap. Funniest thing.”
I groaned laughter as I carried him upstairs.
Arnold sighed, “I think I’m getting used to being cradled.”
The Jeeves and the cradling continued for the rest of the week. Upstairs and downstairs, just like that BBC show. Carrying Arnold while enduring his upper-crust accent was the least I could do.
Needless to say, after a week, Arnold was sick to death of telling people he’d shot himself cleaning his gun. And yes, I used up the bulk of my remaining vacation time so I could take the week off from YouDoIt, Inc. Sanjay totally understood when I explained the situation.
At night, I went out to help people alone while Arnold played Call of Duty WWII. He claimed he did it to keep his instincts sharp for when he was healed up enough to go back out on “distress missions” with me.
I didn’t tell him they were distress calls, not video game combat missions, and him accompanying me ever again sounded like a terrible idea, but I wasn’t going to argue the issue any soon
er than I had to.
When it came to buying food, I cringed every time the cashier at Ralphs rang up my groceries. It seemed like only yesterday I had gotten my latest deposit from YouDoIt. Oh, wait. It was. I was burning through food that fast, and borrowing money from Arnold like other people’s lives depended on it. Oh, wait. They did.
One Saturday afternoon, I told Arnold about the pile of money I had left behind at the drug warehouse the night he was shot.
“YOU LEFT IT?!” Arnold shouted, throwing his Xbox controller on the couch.
“Yeah, I left it.”
“Are you insane?”
“You were bleeding, Arn! What did you want me to do? Take the money instead of helping you?”
“Hell yeah! How much was it?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t count it.”
“But it was a lot.”
“Yeah,” I nodded.
“Guesstimate.”
“I have no idea, Arn,” I sighed.
He was uncharacteristically annoyed. Incredibly so. He said sarcastically, “I know you’re good with numbers, Doug. So guesstimate.”
“Fine.” I closed my eyes and pictured the stacks of money. It hadn’t been a long look, but I had a good memory for visuals. Numerous stacks of bills had been neatly counted and wrapped with those paper bands the bank gave you. Stacks of 1s, 5s, 10s, 20s, 50s, and a few stacks of 100s. And there was that giant pile that had not been counted with the mechanical money counter on the desk.
I said, “Hmmm… altogether, if I had to guess, it could be anywhere between 80 and 90? But that’s just a guess. It could be double that.”
“Between 80 and 90 what?”
“Thousand. Maybe $100,000. I don’t know.”
“You idiot!” He reached behind his back on the couch for a pillow and threw it at me. After, he winced, “Ow! Fuck! My guts!”
“You shouldn’t have thrown the pillow,” I chastised.
He rolled his eyes. “Why the fuck-all didn’t you take that money, Doug?”
“Because Gray Eyes and his FwCK thugs wanted it. The last thing I want is them coming here to look for it.”
“The what thugs?”
“The F-w-C-K thugs. Gray Eyes’ goons.”
“Oh, them. Do we know what it means? The fuck tattoo?”
“I don’t. And it’s F-w-C-K, not fuck. Ever heard of it?”
