Chicago Wildlife - 14. What Are We, Some Kind Of...(Part 1)

Mega Chapter 14: What Are We, Some Kind Of...

So I’m tearing down I94, being sure to go exactly 110 mph in this cop’s car that I hotwired so that the bomb won’t go off, with what looks like every cop car in the city chasing after me, their tax-dollar-paid helicopters hovering above me like a swarm of locusts, with the president’s son bleeding out in the backseat, and the twelve strongest superheroes on the planet lined up a mile ahead of me, ready to blow me to kingdom come.

…Or that’s what I would say, if this were some sort of novel starting in medias res. Something about “making sure your story starts off with something to draw in the readers,” or some bullshit like that. Psh, like every important event in history happened with an explosion. No, my sashay into this mess starts on yet another ho-hum day of making a living here in the Windy City.

My target has a turquoise ring that I’ve had my eye on for some time now. And we both know it’s the real deal, too. You don’t get to be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company buying cheap knockoffs and parading around with them. And for some reason, this chump thinks keeping it stored on the 40^th floor of his high security building will prevent any unwanted intruders from pinching his pretty, precious prize. Oh well. You win some, you lose some. I win some new bling, you lose some dignity.

I saunter through the lobby, towards the elevator. The target will probably expect someone to Tom Cruise their way up the outside of the building, cut a circle out of the glass, hop in, crack the safe, steal the ring, and hop out. Maybe leave a nice rose behind, if they’re feeling generous. An appealing plan, but I opt for the more subtle approach: pose as a janitor, gain access to the CEO’s room by swiping a fellow janitor’s access card, and then crack the safe, steal the ring, and leave a rose behind. I take the elevator up to the second floor, go to the restroom, and don a janitor’s outfit. I grab a spare bucket and mop, put a bored look on my face, exit the restroom and trudge to the elevator. Inside, I see one scruffy-looking man in a nice suit.

“Going up?” he asks.

I grunt in the affirmative and enter. I push the 40^th floor button. It’s around the fifth floor that I black out from the tranquilizer he injects into my neck.

#

Cid awoke to find himself in a barren room. Correction, the room was barren bar several other people, all of whom were starting to regain consciousness as well. What brought Cid some comfort was that Fred was amongst the unconscious. Cid did not recognize anyone else. Fred opened his eyes and immediately sat upright.

“Whoa. This is the least impressive sleepover I’ve ever been invited to!” he said.

“Now is not the time to be so jovial in our current situation,” Cid reprimanded.

“Look! I even brought my wet blanket!” Fred fired back, pointing at Cid.

Cid thought it wise to just ignore Fred’s intentional obliviousness and return to the task at hand, which was deducing their exact location, and discovering an expedient exit. He scanned the room, looking for any important details. Alas, there was naught to be had. It was as if someone had purposefully stripped the entire room of any defining characteristic whatsoever, specifically with defying a brilliant mind like Cid’s in intent.

“Hey! What’s the big idea?” yelled a rotund man at Fred. “It’s too early to be loud!”

Was it perhaps morning? Cid’s chronological scheduling was too murky for confident postulating.

“Aw, can it, old man!” Fred replied. “I only have one volume, and it’s set to ‘fuck your ears!’”

“What’d you just say, you little prick?!”

Cid recognized the spherical man as infamous “liaison to the supers,” Jacques Hein. Not an imminent threat. Cid observed his fellow prisoners. One of them was dressed as a janitor. He sat upright, but was leaned back, resting himself on his hands. He acted like he was processing a million things at once, but in no hurry to stage a coup. His occupation and their current predicament juxtaposed, suggesting a costumed ploy was at play here.

Another man lay on the floor. Though his eyes were shut, it was clear he fully awoken, due exclusively through the fact that the man was laying as though he were in a coffin, legs together, hands over chest, breathing evenly. What was he trying to accomplish by doing this? Meditation? Despair?

And there was a sixth man. One glance and Cid could identify him as either a mime, or pretending to be one. He had the stereotypical French black and white striped shirt on, the black elastic pants, the painted white face, and the white gloves. All he was missing was the beret. The mime had stood up inaudibly and seemed focused on a particular patch of the wall. Primordial fear gripped Cid’s primal mind as the distinct possibility of this mime being the mime made itself known.

“So who’s the jerk who put me in this oversized cubicle anyway?!” shouted Jacques. “I didn’t do nuthin’!”

“I swear, Jacques, if I’m in this predicament because of you…” said the janitor.

So the janitor and Jacques knew each other. Cid and Fred knew each other. Perhaps the mime and the resting man knew each other as well? A couplings scenario, perhaps? But why? And why three pairs? The numbers were frighteningly meaningless to him.

“Well I’m glad it seems y’all had a nice resty-poo!” boomed a commanding voice.

Everyone looked around to detect the origin point of the voice, before a holographic image appeared in the center of the room. It projected an image of a young woman in a business power suit. Her hair was shortened to a buzz cut trim. Her facial features looked like they had been chiseled onto her. Her posture imitated a drill sergeant. Most tellingly, her smug smile suggested that she held absolute power over all of them.

“Sorry, but it looks like cha overslept and missed da bed an’ breakfast by dis much,” she continued, using her right hand to almost pinch an atom. “Guess y’all gonna hafta git by yo day with just da pep in yo step.”

“Look, toots,” said Jacques, “I’m already tired of your shtick, so how’s about…”

“Lardo, chu better sit yo shit-smeared ass down and buckle up! ‘Cause I’m about to take chu and all yo scummy friends on a roller coaster ride from Hell!”

Jacques did as he was commanded.

“Now listen up here, bitches, ‘cause it’s story time with yo own Mama Persephone. Ya see, somewhere out dere in da big scary city is some poor old soul, goes by da name Michael Michaels, but chu all probably know him bettah as Ditto Perfect. Now, I don’t have to explain for y’all what he can do, and if chu don’t already know, well den I guess chu can git one of yo boyfriends to help chu out dere. Anyway, turns out some rat bastard also knows what he can do, and plans on supplying Mr. Originality with some of dat real shit, and den turn him loose on New Eastside. My guess? Fo’ shits n’ giggles. Yo job is to go find Ditto Perfect, and keep him away from touching anything dat he shouldn’t and, if he’s already done dat, then eliminate the problem.”

“And if we don’t feel like spending our Friday night combing the city for your booty call?” asked the janitor, his hand raised like he was in school.

“Oh chu poor sexually confused wet noodle. Chu might want to sit down for dis next whopper, Robin!”

Cid looked at the janitor and noticed his face twinge just a little. Did knowing his real name give that much power over him? Cid recalled quite a few mythical creatures tied to the power of names. Was he one of them?

“Y’all might remember not being asked to do dis, and dat ain’t just because of yo bad manners. We kidnapped chu, we drugged chu full of nanomachines, and now every single one of chu is a prized possession…of me. Chu do one, incy, bincy, teeny, tiny little ding dat I don’t personally approve of, I press dis here button,” she said, holding up a remote, “and dose nanomachines supercharge demselves into a thousand degrees (Fahrenheit, for all chu non-patriots in da room). Yo body will painfully melt for a few seconds. Trust me, I saw it happen to all da human test trials. Yes, even chu, flamer.”

Cid wondered if she spoke the truth.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?!” yelled Fred.

“Oh God, oh God, tell me this isn’t happening!” yammered Jacques.

“D’aww, if chu have any complaints about my methods, why don’t chu have yo representative speak up about dem now? Well? I’m all ears, Pierre O’Myut.”

She directed her gaze right at the mime, who froze at the mention of his name. So his fears were accurate. This mime was, in fact, the notorious silent assassin, Monsieur Mime. Though unarmed, Cid was not certain that his fire abilities could overwhelm Pierre in a closed fighting environment. Pierre rotated and spied everyone staring at him, expecting him to voice all their pressing concerns. Surely, he was only a mime in profession and had the actual ability to speak? Pierre shrugged his shoulders.

“I elect we choose a new representative,” Cid proclaimed.

“And I elect, Cid, dat chu shut the fuck up and remind yo Sheldon-ass Cooper mind dat chu ain’t in a democracy anymore! Now pay attention, bitches. You’re about to be dropped off at da heart of Chicago. Once dere, chu are to find Ditto Perfect, and neutralize him. Once I see dat chu’ve done dat, I’ll let chu go on yo merry little way. Now I don’t care who chu have to kill in order to accomplish dat, nor do I care if y’all end up killing each other before chu git to him, so long as at least one of chu git to him before he gits to New Eastside. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes ma’am,” replied Jacques.

Cid could hear Robin make a tch sound, probably out of annoyance.

“Dat was a rhetorical question, kiss-ass. I was gonna gas chu even if chu said no.”

“Wh-”

Just then, a stream of gas poured into the room from every side. Everyone started coughing, and before Cid and the rest knew it, they were out.