Super Meals: Part Twelve

            They had just picked up a bag of burgers from the drive-thru when Mimi’s phone rang. She checked the message coming from Jane while Walter sorted the burgers into lines on his legs – one for him and one for Mimi. He watched her take out her phone and tap the screen before putting it up to her ear to listen to the recording from Jane.

            “Isn’t that, like, illegal?” he asked her.

            “Probably,” she said. “Ask a traffic cop.”

            “What’s your beat?”

            She slowly turned her head and looked him in the eye before saying “Murder.”

            There was an uncomfortable moment between them, and then Mimi started laughing. With the tension broken, Walter laughed, too, and handed Mimi one of her burgers, saying “So what was on the message that was so important it couldn’t wait to be listened to legally?”

            “Information on a dead body we found recently. The coroner’s an…let’s say she’s an old friend.”

            Walter noticed the hesitation, but decided to let it drop. “What was the message about?”

            “Oh, some dirtbag lawyer showed up and was giving her shit about the investigation. He wanted to inspect the body or something and she told him to kick rocks until he came back with a court order. She’s probably just being paranoid. After all, why would some fast food lawyer give a shit about a dead hobo?”

            “Are you asking me or was that rhetorical?” said Walter.

            “Purely rhetorical, I assure you.” She said, unwrapping her burger. Walter did the same with his. “You know,” she continued, “This was the last meal of that very same dead guy?”

            “Like, these exact burgers?” Walter asked. He hesitated with the burger halfway to his face.

            “Oh no,” she said. “We just found a bunch of wrappers at the camp where his body was found.” Mimi showed no hesitancy as she shoved her own burger into her face.

            Walter brought his burger up to his lips again, but stopped as it reached his mouth, asking “Wait, you said a camp?”

            “Yeah,” Mimi replied between bites. “A lot of times these homeless guys set up camps for themselves. In bigger cities they’re veritable shantytowns. Small towns like ours, though, it’s usually just one-off encampments. A tent, a bucket, a tarp…”

            “Wait,” Walter said. “Where did you find this guy? I just saw an abandoned camp over by the overpass.”

            Mimi crumpled up her empty wrapper and tossed it into the back seat. “Yeah, that’s the one!” she said, reaching over and taking a burger off of Walter’s lap. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?”

            Walter was thinking about the camp and gave a half-hearted “Huh? Oh, no…”

            He stared at his burger, remembering the events of the day. His mind seemed to spotlight a handful of key moments – his super-strength, the bloody stain near the makeshift toilet at the hobo camp, his violent vomiting…

            “Hey,” said Mimi, finally noticing his silence. “You okay? I thought you were hungry.”

            Walter re-wrapped his burger and dropped it back into the bag, along with the other two he’d ordered. “Say,” he started. “That dead homeless guy – was there anything…weird about him?”

            Now Mimi was serious. “Why?” she asked. “Weird how?”

            “Like, was there anything physically wrong with him? Besides being dead?”

            “Maybe,” she said. “What do you know?”

            He sighed and put the bag on the floor. “You ever special-order anything from this fast food place?”

            “No,” she said. “They never get it right anyway and I ain’t got time for that shit. Why?”

            “I think I should tell you about my afternoon.”

Super Meals: Part Eleven

When Doctor Ralph got back to his hotel room, the first thing he did was remove his jacket, shirt, and pants and hang them up in the closet. He had brought two full suits, but he preferred to get as much use out of them as possible and he hated ironing.

Then, in his undershirt and shorts, he took his laptop out of his carry-on and set it up on the desk, connecting to the complimentary Wi-Fi. It was a top-of-the-line touchscreen with a micro-mouse that connected through Bluetooth and a soft keyboard that unrolled from the case, and once it was fully connected to the world he tapped the screen and ran a handful of apps that provided as much internet security as humanly possible.

Once he was sure that he couldn’t be monitored and all of his data was fully encrypted, he opened a file from his secure server entitled “Known Reactions and Victims Research.” It was a spreadsheet, and it had over 100 entries already, so he scrolled down to line 187 and clicked on the empty line.

The first six columns of line 186 read:

Male – age 24 – 5’6” – approx. 160 lbs. – Type O+ - brgr+ketch+tom+wht ched

            The seventh column, however, was much more detailed:

Subject ingested special order at roughly 5:35pm local time. By roughly 6pm, subject developed fever, heavy sweating. Subject’s clothing began melting by approx. 6:15pm. According to police reports, subject used new ability to melt the lock on a hotel pool at approximately 6:20pm and entered the water. Reports further state subject was screaming about “the burning” and dove into pool fully clothed (relatively speaking; clothing had mostly burned or melted away by that point). Witnesses attest that upon entering the pool the water began to boil, driving other swimmers to evacuate and call police. When police arrived on-scene at approximately 6:30, entire contents of pool (estimated at 14,000 gallons) had evaporated and the subject was deceased, leaving a burned shadow on the bottom surface of the pool.

            The entire spreadsheet was full of information like this, and Doctor Ralph, remembering what he’d read at the county coroner’s office, made another entry. This one was about the homeless man and his mutated ears.

            When he was satisfied that he had entered all the information he could remember as accurately as he could, he saved the spreadsheet and opened a web browser to search for the local courthouse. It didn’t take him long to find the information he needed (he’d done this hundreds of times already in other cities all across the country), and then called and left a message for the county clerk to tell one of the judges who he was, that he needed access to the coroner’s report, and then he name-dropped some rather high-priced lawyers (all on retainer for the fast food corporation) who would make the next phone call, should he be denied his court order.

            After he hung up, he spent some time scrolling through the spreadsheet, reviewing the different entries. He was gave most of his attention to column six (which listed various food combinations), skimmed column seven, and felt his frustration grow as he scrolled through 187 entries of column eight.

            Column eight, 187 lines deep, had the same entry in every box.

            Deceased; within 24 hours.

Super Meals: Part Ten

Mimi made a mental note of the gentleman waiting outside of the coroner’s office and filed it away in the back of her head, along with the date, time, and location. It was a habit she’d been taught in the police academy and it always came in handy when she was eventually asked to identify a suspect in court.

She wasn’t at all thrilled with what Jane had told her about the dead homeless guy; an inexplicable medical condition at the time of death would require further investigation on her part…and Jane’s. It wasn’t that she didn’t have faith in Jane, quite the opposite. But the first time they had to work in close proximity to each other they ended up dating.

The last time they had to work in close proximity to each other, they broke up.

Mimi could already hear her captain’s voice in her head, yelling at her to get her ass back on the street (while the guys in the station snickered) and figure out what the hell happened to this guy, so she decided to go check out the encampment where he was found and see if there was anything that was missed.

She drove her unmarked cop car towards the scene where the body was found, and as she rounded the corner facing Washington Park, she noticed a group of guys huddled around the swing set. She knew that Washington Park was claimed territory of The Niners, a local gang founded by toughs in the neighborhood around North Ninth Street. During daylight hours they left people alone (rumor had it that several of them had kids at the local school), but after nightfall, when the street lights came on, the only people who went to the park were either causing trouble, or looking for it.

And, based on the scene, some poor bastard had found it.

The crime scene was going to have to wait.

She pulled over and parked on the street well away from the play-area where the gang had gathered and closed her door as quietly as possible. Whatever these thugs were doing, they were occupied with it – they didn’t hear her coming at all.

Halfway across the grass she reached into her pocket…and found her bottle of scotch. Then she remembered that she actually had her gun with her, and it was where it belonged, for once, in its holster.

She saw the gang physically recoil and step back as one, which created enough of a break in their circle for her to see that there was a guy on the ground in the middle of them all, on all fours. A couple of the gang swung kicks at him as she sped up her approach to a trot and pulled the .357 from the holster. She heard someone on the far side of the circle say “Bitch, you crazy? I oughta stab you for even thinkin’ ‘bout swingin’ on me. Maybe I put my initials on your face so you remember you don’t do that no more” and decided that was her cue.

She cocked the hammer of her revolver and said “Surprise, boys, it’s the police.”

Everybody had frozen in place at the sound of her gun, but when they heard the word “police” several of them sagged. One of the guys, the one closest to her, turned and said “Come on, cop, you know this our park. Why’n’t you fuck over and leave us ‘lone?”

“Sounds good, you let my friend up and we’ll be on our merry way. Deal?”

The one with a knife against Walter’s face spoke up then, saying “S’our park, copper. We’s just defending us’selves.” He said these last four words in a singsong voice, mocking her, but she didn’t take the bait.

“Cute. But he’s unarmed and surrounded by known gang members with a knife up against his face. I’m pretty sure I could kill at least you and the judge would rule it justified,” she said, smirking.

The gang members got deadly serious then. Any traces of smiles were gone. Mimi recognized the body language and attitude shift – they were getting ready for a fight.

“Look guys,” she said, “I’m not here for you. It’s your park, you’ve made your point, lemme get this guy outta here and we’ll all call it square, huh?”

The gang members all exchanged looks, but their gazes all came to rest on the one who initially spoke first. After at least a minute, he spoke again.

“All right, cop. Get your boy and get outta here.”

That was all Walter needed to hear. He stood up, nursing his side (kidney punches really hurt, he discovered), and started walking towards Mimi. He would have made it, too, but several hours previously he passed out with his foot in a swing.

Passing out with his foot in a swing made it fall asleep.

A foot that’s asleep is not only numb, it can’t support weight.

A foot that can’t support weight makes you stumble as soon as you try to step onto it.

Stumbling makes you flail your arms about wildly to try and catch your balance.

Flailing your arms about wildly while surrounded by punks and gangbangers makes you accidentally slap someone in the face.

Accidentally slapping someone in the face makes them angry.

Angry gangbangers want to stab a bitch.

So really it was the swing’s fault, but the lead thug didn’t care. As Walter stumbled over his dead foot and swung his arms out to try and catch himself, he slapped the guy in the face, knocking him aside.

The world went slow-mo.

Mimi muttered “Oh shit…” to herself as Walter hit the ground and the guy he’d slapped spun on the spot. Mimi rushed forward, grabbing Walter by the arm and hauling him upwards as the gang leader recovered from the slap by pulling a knife out of his back pocket and flipping the blade open. He swiped at Walter with it as he and Mimi started running towards her car.

Time resumed.

Mimi and Walter were sprinting to her car when he sputtered “Don’t…you…have a…gun? Why…are…we…running?”

Mimi, who was in much better shape, physically, wasn’t even out of breath. She replied “Because I hate paperwork and I counted at least eight of them back there, so unless you’ve got a box of ammo somewhere on you, I couldn’t even take them all if I wanted to.”

They could hear the gang chasing after them and while Mimi had no problem speeding up, Walter almost fell over himself trying to run faster. She reached the car first thumbed the remote start button on the keyfob, thankful to hear the engine roar to life. She opened the door and Walter fell face-first across the front seat, blocking her from getting in. “Fuck me,” she muttered as she put a foot on his ass and shoved him the rest of the way over onto the passenger side before climbing in after him.

She had just gotten the door slammed shut when the thugs caught up to the car and slammed into its side. They pounded on the windows, shouting for Mimi and Walter to get out, but she slammed the key into the ignition, put it in gear, and floored it. The bad guys all fell away from the car, but not before they cracked a couple of windows from hammering on them with the butts of their knives.

Walter gasped in the front seat, trying to get his breath back, and Mimi said “Well fuck, now I’m gonna have to explain that to the assholes in the motor pool.” When his voice came back to him, Walter finally said “Thank…” *pant* *wheeze* “You…”

“Save it,” said Mimi. “I was just doing my job.”

“You got a name?” asked Walter.

“Spatchcock. Detective Spatchcock.”

“What kind of a name is ‘Spatchcock?’”

“The kind that just saved your ass, moron.”

“Fair enough. I’m Walter. Elliot.” He extended his hand and Mimi shook it.

“Walter? That’s funny, I would have pegged you for a John or something—“

“More boring?” he finished for her. She smiled, but didn’t answer. “So, like, what happens now, Detective Spatchcock?”

“Well, I was on my way to investigate a crime scene, but instead I get to take you home. Like I said, I’m not a fan of paperwork. And I’m already working on one case, I don’t need to file an assault report, too.” She glanced over at him. When she first saw him in the park, she tried to make her mental notes as always, taking in his height, approximate weight, hair color, and distinguishing features, but nothing stuck. Seeing him, now, in the passenger seat of her car, he looked new to her again. Not in any exciting kind of way, he was just so terminally ordinary that none of his attributes were worth remembering. Every time she tried to take him in, it was like her brain was saying “There is no fucking way I’m wasting energy on remembering this boring bastard.”

(Mimi had a filthy mind that went out of its way to be rude since she was never allowed to express herself honestly as a cop)

“So, Walter Elliot,” she finally continued. “Where do you live?”

“304 South Second,” he replied. “Can I ask you one quick thing, though?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Can we hit a drive-through on the way? I’m starving and could really go for a burger.”

Super Meals: Part Nine

Walter woke up to someone kicking him in the shoulder.

“Get up, fucker, this our park!” said the kicker.

He opened one eye and noticed that it was dark. He had no idea how long he’d been lying there, it could have been several hours, or it could have been a few minutes.

(It had only been about an hour, but Walter didn’t have a watch and had lost all track of time in all the excitement over his temporary super strength)

The second thing Walter noticed after taking in the fact that it was fully nighttime, was that there wasn’t just one kicker, but several. They were all backlit from the streetlights surrounding the park and he couldn’t make out any faces, but the voice sounded young to him.

Someone else kicked him, saying “Hey! J’oo hear what my boy jus’ said? Why don’ you get da fuck up ‘fore I kick you some more?”

Walter roused himself, rolling onto his side and trying to stand up, but this was made much more difficult by the fact that his foot was still tangled up in the swings. The group of toughs let him extract himself and stand up before all taking a step closer and closing a circle around him.

Walter rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and tried to shake himself awake, but he didn’t want to risk antagonizing the group surrounding him by even accidentally bumping into one of them. Instead he just asked “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

The one who had kicked him first spoke up, saying “Well, it’s like this. This here is our park when the streetlights come on, and you’re here when you shouldn’t be. So howsabout you give us some money, we’ll call it rent, and then we’ll run your ass outta here and you don’t come back? Sound like a deal, brudder?”

Walter wasn’t a fighter by any means. He wasn’t a hero, either. He was painfully average.

He was also broke.

At least, he didn’t have any cash on him, and he doubted that the goons harassing him carried credit card readers.

(He would have been surprised to find out that two of them did, in fact, have mobile card readers for their phones, but the topic never came up)

So instead, he said “Look, guys, I don’t have any money on me. Sorry. How about you let me have this one and I’ll never let it happen again. I’ll even come back with cash later!”

They all laughed at this, which made Walter laugh and think that he was going to get away with it. He was already looking forward to spinning this into a tale to tell his friends at the bar (he’d sound cooler when he told it later, though), but then the guy who kicked him the second time punched him in the kidney and he collapsed.

The group all took a step back to allow him to fall to his knees, and when he reached out to try and help himself up again, they kicked his hands out from under him and he fell again.

“Y’see, chief, we don’t trust you. Guys like you have a tendency to lie to guys like us, so you’ll unnerstan’ if we don’t take you at your word. How ‘bout we just take your clothes, instead?”

The group chuckled at this, but the mirth was gone now, and it sounded to Walter more like the noise a cat would make when it had a mouse trapped under its paws.

He felt a knot in his stomach, and he thought maybe he could make a fight of it. He ripped his car door off just a few hours ago, after all. Maybe there was something left in the tank?

Walter swung blindly, hoping to catch one of the goons off-guard, but he didn’t know anything about fighting and he missed.

A lot.

Like, the guy he swung at didn’t even realize that Walter had swung at him until Walter had fallen over and his face hit the dirt. But even though Walter missed, the goon didn’t like being swung at, so while the rest of the little gang started laughing harder, he pulled a switchblade from his pocket, flicked it open, and pressed the flat of the blade against the back of Walter’s neck.

“Bitch, you crazy? I oughta scab you for even thinkin’ ‘bout swingin’ on me.” He traced the blade around the side of Walter’s face. “Maybe I put my initials on your face so you remember you don’t do that no more.”

The click of the gun cocking was surprisingly loud. Probably because when you hear that click, suddenly nothing else in the world matters and it demands your whole attention. Everybody froze except the guy with the knife, he had stood straight up and put his hands in front of himself.

Behind him, a woman’s voice said “Surprise, boys, it’s the police.”