Back to business

So, in case you've forgotten since I've been navel-gazing of late, I also fight a bit of crime on the side. Things have been slow lately, what with the Tipper Truce and the capture of Maximilian Meatshank, so I wasn't really ready for yesterday's standoff. I was minding my own business drinking apple juice in the park near work, enjoying the stiff breeze, and doodling on some spreadsheets. This shady figure slithers up the path, at first I just assume he's indigent or a scam artist about to tell me how he has a car around the corner that leaked its last droplet of gasoline and his triplets, who are colicky, are bundled up in car seats waiting for some fine lass like myself to dole out a little financial love so they can get home safely. But as he draws nearer, I can smell him. He smells like garden tomatoes, which is sort of a baffling scent in midwinter, but at least it isn't piss or Old Spice. Still I keep my focus locked on the dead grass sprouting from the sidewalk in front of me.

"I know who you are," he says in a voice like a tea pot coming to boil.

I only have only three responses to this question, feign deafness, stab to the gut, or:

"Did we go to high school together? Home Ec? Third Period?"

He rolls some mucus at the back of his throat, but his voice still comes out at the pitch of a whistle. "No." And then, "I know who you are."

"We can do this easy, man," I say lowering my voice several octaves for the contrast. "Walk away." I look at a mother and her little girl doing yoga a few oak trees over. I don't want a scene, I don't know what he wants, but I'm pretty sure it's not my apple juice.

"I just have a message." He extends a pale blue envelope that has a snotty cluster of tomato seeds smeared on one corner.

Fine. I'm wearing a skirt, I don't want the hassle of a fight. I take the envelope, put it in my bag.

"We done?"

"Sure," he says. Next thing I know I'm kissing concrete, his boot heel sinking into my right cheek. After I'm sure I'm disfigured, he releases his foot. I spit out some blood. A jogger is approaching, ear buds in, oblivious to anything but her own stride. He lifts me off the concrete anyway, and in a stage whisper loud enough so that the yogis can hear he says, "You gotta be more careful, girl. Next time it could be serious. Did you take your medication like you're supposed to?"

"No, I forgot, Uncle Jonesy. Sorry," I yell, then lick at the blood crusting around my lips.

"You think you're real cool, girlie. But we're gonna gitcha," he snarls. I feint right, but he's already halfway to the parking lot. I open the envelope, and there's nothing inside.