“Did the originals eat people?”
“No. That seems to be a bioengineered response peculiar to these cloned versions. Maybe it’s meant to compensate for all the energy the transformation consumes. Whoever designed them probably figured that the nearest food source available in large supplies would be…people.”
WHOOM!
It’s real close this time—like right in front of the building. Mr. Snuffles and I peer over the side. Both our hearts go pitter-pat. “Don’t worry, fellow, I’ve got you. Oh my. See that down there, Mr. S.? A big hole in the street, a crushed car, and a fallen lamppost— all making a line headed our way? Uh, Preston, has some doggie monster maybe done the change thing without me?”
“Hang on. Sats out of range. I’m accessing the street cams nearest your location, and…”
In the background, an excited voice calls out. “Agent Preston, I think I’ve got something!”
“Is that Carl? Say hi, will you?”
“Wade, get out of there, NOW!”
“Chillax. If it’s another monster, I’ve got the ADD. One spray and…”
“It’s not one of the monsters, it’s…”
KROOM!
The building shrugs. The dog yelps. The phone nearly flies out of my hand.
“Em? Hello? Don’t tell me you went into a tunnel? Hello?”
I look down again. A blur flies up toward us. I want to say it’s moving impossibly fast, but it’s not only possible, it’s also crazy thick and crazy muscled, with green skin and shredded purple pants. I stumble back barely in time to give it the space it needs to land in front of me. The impact nearly throws me off my feet, and its weight almost collapses the roof.
Mr. Snuffles clings to me. Aw!
Our next surprise guest star isn’t Goom or Gorgolla big, but he feels bigger—a massive powder keg perpetually ready to blow. Worse than Dad. Especially when he starts yelling at me, too. It’s like…like…y’know how all caps in an email or text makes you feel as if the writer is shouting at you? This is kind of like that, only more, so I’m going with boldface, too:
“HULK NOT WANT SEE PUPPIES HURT!”
CHAPTER 16
WE ALL know the Hulk: brilliant, mild-mannered scientist Bruce Banner, belted by gamma rays, wrecking the town with the power of a bull. Ain’t he unglamorous? You won’t like it when he’s angry, ’cause the madder he gets, the stronger he gets.
Any of this ringing a bell?
Longtime Hulk fans know that sometimes he’s sort of in control of himself, and sometimes he’s just a plain old rage machine. Pretty sure we’ve got the latter here.
Mr. Snuffles under my arm, my hands out in a sign of abject supplication, I stare into those big green eyes and try to do what is for me the most difficult thing in the world: talk sense.
“Easy, there, Hulky. I know what it looks like, but I’d never hurt a—”
Then comes the punch. It’s not like he can manage a sucker blow with that fist—it’s broadcast like crazy. I can hear the trashcan-thick muscles tense when he pulls back his arm, giving me sweet, sweet time to try to get out of the way. I almost make it, too. Matter of fact, I’m not sure if it’s actually the unyielding flesh and steely bone of his fist that makes contact with me, or the air ahead of it, so compressed it feels like a concrete beach ball. Whatever it is, my gut curls around it, my tootsies leave the roof, and once again we’ve got liftoff!
In a comic, it’s easy to control the passage of time. A falling droplet can stretch across several panels, centuries skipped with a single caption reading, “A thousand years later…” Here in the first-person, present-tense prose world, it’s trickier. But as I watch the Hulk get smaller and smaller while his blow sends me sailing far and away, indulge me, if you will, in some brief and perhaps needless time expansion.
Remember, the events you are reading took less time than they appear.
We begin with the pain of the moment: “OOMF!”
Hoping to soften the impact of our landing, I struggle to wrap myself around the hapless Mr. Snuffles. First we hit the enclosed stairwell leading back into the building. No rolling downstairs for this dynamic duo. We crash through like a fist through an empty tissue box—plaster, wood-frame, and all.
Take it from a guy who’s gone through a lot of walls—usually, it slows you down. Not an issue here. If anything, I feel like we’re moving faster when we come out the other side. We pass over the ledge and head into the open air: free, free, free.
Except for the whole gravity thing.
By the time we cross 2nd Avenue, the pull of good ol’ Mother Earth tugs us just enough so that we hit the slightly lower roof of another building. The Lab tight against my belly, I spin backwards like a ball—not so much because I’m a skilled fighter who knows the best way to land, but more because I’m an object caught in the grip of physics, and that’s how I roll. (Get it?)
Fortunately, this roof is bigger and more crowded than the one we left behind, so after pinballing off a few air-conditioning condenser units, we do slow down enough for me to stop us before we tumble off the ledge.
Though I wouldn’t tell him to his face, the Hulk can’t fly. Small comfort, since he can cover miles in a single jump. I’m barely up, doing a staggering Fred Astaire dance thing, when the big green machine lands. He’s still pissed, but not shouting quite as loud, so we’ll do away with the boldface:
“HULK SEE YOU HURT DOGGIE ON YOUTUBE!”
The Hulk gets Internet? How incredible of him. No time for questions about his choice of ISP. This time, I’m pretty sure it is his actual fist that connects. Gives you an idea of how mad he gets. If he was really worried about doggies, he’d have given me a chance to put Snuffles down, but you tell him that. The wacky guy’s all feeling—wears his heart on his sleeve.
Or is that my heart on his sleeve?
We cross another street, hit an office building, go through the wall, fly across a desk or two, and then it’s out the window and down a mere four stories. I’m tough, not invulnerable, but it’s mostly scratches and bruises so far. I cleverly slow our descent by slamming into a few jutting window ledges.
I hit the sidewalk. Mr. Snuffles hits my chest, making the cutest little sound as all the air is forced out of his lungs. Can’t get it exactly, but it’s kinda like “Rrrrrunnfff!”
With all the grace and savoir faire of a plummeting aircraft carrier, Greenie lands a few yards away. I hope he’ll do the thing where he claps his hands to create a devastating sonic wave, because that probably won’t hurt as much. But no, he punches me again. Right upside my head, where I keep all those… What do you call them? Oh yeah—thoughts.
Often I’ll slip gently into hallucination, barely noticing when it happens. This is more like when you get a different station every time you hit a broken television. Images scramble, audio mixes. In the “real” word, I think the trajectory takes us over a subway vent blasting steam, because I feel this gush of warm air that reminds me of the hot wind on a summer day.
One day in particular. I’m on a baseball field in a park, making fun of some chubby kid for striking out. Sophie’s watching. I’m trying to impress her with my wit when I unwittingly cross some bully-etiquette line. The kid, who’s a head shorter, is furious, red-faced, straining and shaking like he’s constipated. He doesn’t know whether to burst into tears, or to try and beat the crap out of me. With all the other kids watching, he makes a stand and pummels me, popping his fists against my chest.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”
It’s the old-school rule: Take the biggest guy down, and the others will leave you alone. Only he’s got like zero strength, so it’s like being hit by extra-soft Q-Tips. It’s so pathetic, I laugh. That only makes him more frustrated and ashamed.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”
So he punches faster and faster, harder and harder. But no matter how fast and hard he punches, it doesn’t hurt. I laugh harder. I can’t control myself. I double over. Everybod
y’s laughing. Sophie, too. Even the kid’s parents. It’s that funny. Tears stream down his puffy red cheeks, but he keeps at it.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”
But then it changes. Next thing, I’m the stupid chubby kid doing the punching—only I’m not hitting myself, I’m hitting the Hulk. And he’s not laughing. And it doesn’t tickle. I hurt all over: snapped ribs, broken femur, squirting blood, the works.
He picks me up over his head, ready to toss me.
“YOU HURT PUPPY!”
Despite the swirling spots before my eyes, I get an idea. I’ve pretty much met everyone in the Marvel Universe, which means I must have met the Hulk.
“Hulk, listen! You remember me?”
He thinks for a second. He’s kinda cute when he thinks. No. Let’s say cuter.
“DEADPOOL HURT DOGGIE! HULK CRUSH!”
“Deadpool! That’s right. I’m Deadpool. That means that no matter what you do to me, I’ll still heal. You can’t crush me. Not forever, anyway.”
That one puzzles him. “HULK CAN’T CRUSH?”
He drops me. “Ow. Yeah. So if you think about it, what’s the point?”
He squints. He lowers his voice. “Hulk can’t crush.”
He stomps on me again—just a little—to make sure.
“Nrgh! See? Still…here…”
“Can’t crush. Can’t crush. What Hulk do?” He scratches his head. “Not crush…not crush…”
“You could…listen to me…”
His eyes light up. I’m sure he’d snap his fingers if he knew how, ’cause he looks like he’s had himself an epiphany.
“HULK SIT!”
“No! I didn’t… Wait…”
I’d move if I could, but I can’t even manage to squirm before that big green butt and its accompanying two tons of meat mass plops itself down on what’s left of me.
“Eeeg! No! Noooooooo…!”
“Hulk sit until you promise not to hurt doggie.”
I suppose there’s something to be said for the fact that he’s not hitting me anymore, but I’m not sure what that might be. Hope he hasn’t eaten any chimichangas recently. I look up past his crotch into that big green face, so terribly pleased with itself.
“Hulk…listen…I don’t want to hurt any dogs, but some of ’em might be monsters.”
He tilts his head. “Dog monster?”
“That’s it. And the monsters might hurt people.”
“Hurt people?”
“Yes! You are so smart, Hulk. You got that right away. That is so good. Now, if the monster might hurt some poor people, it’d be okay for me to hurt the monster so it couldn’t hurt the people, right? The same way you hurt me—really badly, I might add—because you thought I was hurting real doggies.”
He scrunches his brow and purses his lips.
“Am I right, Hulk?”
But then he clenches his fists, rattles his butt, and snaps a few more of my ribs.
“DOGGIE NOT MONSTER, DOGGIE DOGGIE! Hulk sit until
Deadpool promise not to hurt doggie!”
It goes on like this for a while—so long I’m wondering where S.H.I.E.L.D. or the first responders are. With the Hulk immobile, they’re probably watching from a safe distance, laughing their asses off.
Mr. Snuffles has stayed with me, though. The sweet, special thing even tries to drag me out from under. Sometimes it feels like that dog is my only friend—and I’ve known him for less than an hour.
We humans cause so many of our own problems, don’t we? Look how long it’s taken me to realize I can just lie to the big green idiot.
“Okay, Hulk! You got it! I promise never to hurt any doggie ever again so long as I live. Cross my heart!”
He looks at me suspiciously, but then gets up. My right arm lifts along with him. I’m afraid it’s stuck between his clenched butt cheeks, but it comes loose. The oppressive weight gone, a few of my bits rise back into place with a disturbingly rubbery sound. The rest is gonna take a while, but the healing has begun.
The loyal Mr. Snuffles wags his tail and yips happily.
Which, of course, Greenie notices. “Doggie! Hulk want pet doggie.”
The average dog understands 165 words. From the terrified look on Snuffles’ face, he’s caught the Hulk’s gist.
“I’m not sure that’s a good—”
“HULK NOT HURT DOGGIE! HULK WANT PET!”
It’s not like either of us can stop him. The green giant plucks him up like a hairy grape. Mr. Snuffles gets all stiff and saucer-eyed. I try to apologize to him with my eyes, since they’re among the few body parts I can still move, then I just hold my breath and watch.
Hulk pats the head. “Nice doggie! Soft doggie!”
So far, so good. Awkwardly, like a big toddler, he moves his hand up and down the furry body. Maybe this’ll calm the Hulk down, change him back to his human form.
Only then he gets a little…eager. He starts moving his mitt faster and harder.
“Hulk will pet you and pet you and pet you and…!”
“Easy! Gentle! You don’t want to…”
Uh-oh.
“Doggie?” Eyes widening, the Hulk looks down at the motionless animal in his hand. “Why doggie not move?” He turns to me, big green lips trembling. “Why doggie not move?”
Like I’m going to tell him. “Uh…”
He prods Mr. Snuffles with his finger. “Wake up doggie! Don’t be…don’t be…”
Eyes watery, he lays the limp Mr. Snuffles by my side. “Hulk didn’t mean it. Hulk not bad.”
Never heard the Hulk actually cry before. It’s…creepy.
He leaps off, screaming, “HULK NOT BAD! HULK NOT BAD!”
And he keeps right on jumping until the sound of crunching pavement fades in the distance.
CHAPTER 17
MR. SNUFFLES! We hardly knew ye. Sob.
Still no sign of S.H.I.E.L.D., but with all the big green excitement over and the workday clock ticking, the city’s daily commute gets going. More and more people wander by. Sure, they stare. Can’t help it, I suppose.
They say New Yorkers are unfriendly, but it’s not true. In a hurry? Yeah. Assertive? Sure. And yes, you have to know how to hail a cab. But ask for directions, and any one of them will help you out. Just keep your stupid questions quick and to the point. Haven’t got all day.
The gawking crowd gathering ’round is a perfect representation of the great melting pot: white, black, Hispanic, Asian, male and female, old and young, working class and execs, single parents and same-sex couples. Ignoring their differences, they stand shoulder-to-shoulder, pressing in for a better look.
Not ten feet away, two homeless people are huddled in a doorway, clothes and skin as gray as the street, and no one gives them the time of day. What’s unusual about that? Now, a guy in a red-and-black suit, beaten to a pulp, lying next to a dead Labrador puppy? That’s news.
The smart phones come out like forks at a feast. Memory chips being cheaper than minutes, video is recorded with abandon, despite the fact neither of us is moving.
If any of ’em had really, really good hearing, they might hear my body stitching itself back together. As it is, I must seem pretty bad off, lying here in a stew of my own pureed organics. Mr. Snuffles looks more natural, but that only makes it sadder.
One eagle-eyed gal in a business suit pushes to the front and gets a particularly horrified look on her face. Maybe she’ll finally suggest calling an ambulance?
Nope. That’s the other thing about New Yorkers—they’re full of surprises. She points at me like I came out of the dog’s butt.
“OMG! That’s the dognapper from the news! He killed that puppy!”
“Did not! And he wasn’t just any puppy. Sniff. They called him… Mr. Snuffles.”
Surprised I’m still alive, the ad-hoc group gasps and takes a collective step back. You’d think most people would take a talking gore pile at its word. I know I would, but when assumptions run rampant, the accusations come fr
ee of charge.
“How could you do that to a poor helpless puppy, you freaking loser?” says a bike messenger. He takes off his coat and uses it to cover the dog.
“Couldn’t tell you since, like I said, I didn’t do it.”
“Murderer!” the first woman shouts.
“Well…sure, depending on your definition, but…”
A pencil-thin older guy in a three-piece shakes his rolled-up Wall Street Journal at me like he’s gonna swat my nose.
“I don’t believe in the death penalty, but in your case, I’d make an exception!”
“You’re entitled to your own opinion, but not your own facts. I didn’t do it!”
He sneers. He’s heard it all before. “Why would you even say something like that, unless you’re guilty?”
This is worse than talking to the Hulk. Mobs are all about selective hearing. One idiot shouts something incendiary, someone else agrees, and before you know it, they’ve hit this funky tipping point. Suddenly, everyone’s in tune, and they all magically know the same lyrics and choreography—like in an episode of Glee.
“He can’t get away with this!”
“We should do something!”
I’d say mobs are like sheep, but sheep don’t get angry, even when you take their wool and eat them. Lemmings? Nope. Despite popular belief, they don’t really commit mass suicide. That’s just an urban legend that got traction when a nature-film crew faked it by tossing the little buggers off a cliff for the camera. But you don’t see anyone forming a mob around them, do you?
“Let’s do something!”
“Yeah! Let’s!”
I’d love to get up and beat the crap out of everyone for being stupid. But until I heal, all I’ve got is this lame honesty thing:
“Didn’t do it! Didn’t do it! DIDN’T DO IT!”
Hey, my throat’s healing, getting stronger. If I’m loud and adamant enough, maybe I can achieve that special air of truthiness. Looks like I’m making some progress. A uniformed meter maid pushes through the throng and stands beside me. Maybe she’ll talk some sense to them.
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