A career in 24-hour retail had never been Ishiru Suzuki�s fondest dream. Now, though, it seemed less attractive than ever. The only other competent employee at that particular 7-11 had quit the previous day, and Ishiru was halfheartedly finishing up the last of his three shifts. Six-hour shifts.
True, even in Chicago, business was somewhat slow after nine PM- he was essentially being paid to sit behind the counter and read the rather less legal magazines that were kept under the cash drawer in an unmarked box- but no amount of free Sexy Babes and the Women Who Love Them would keep him from eventually strangling that group of health nuts outside who were debating the virtues of diet pills at a decibel level normally reserved for calling dogs. (Ishiru didn't normally indulge in run-on sentences, but his normal reaction- "To hell with them"- somehow seemed inadequate in this case.)
On that particular evening, Ishiru was vegetating behind the counter with his head on his arms, mentally counting the nanoseconds until he could go home. Nobody had been in the store for over an hour, except some guy with a hockey stick who seemed to be pricing ten-liter jugs of Gatorade in the back. Ishiru was ignoring reality in general as he stared blankly ahead, his brain firmly in Screensaver Mode. The computerized �ding!� of the door opening didn�t even register.
Three young toughs had entered the 7-11. Or rather, two young toughs and what appeared to be a teenaged cross between Peewee Herman and Al Gore. Tough #1 something hidden under his trench coat, and numbers two and three were nervously glancing at Ishiru, who showed no signs of life.
Thirty minutes until quitting time. Thirty minutes until quitting time. Thir- twenty-nine minutes until quitting time.
"Hey, buddy!"
The voice of the first tough- currently standing in front of the register with "small-time punk" written all over him- jolted the Japanese man back to reality.
"Liquor's in the back," Ishiru responded automatically. The kid shook his head and, with absolutely no fanfare whatsoever, produced a sawed-off shotgun from under his trench.
"I don't want booze or cigarettes or anything. I want you to fork over all your money now, and nobody gets hurt. Got it?"
Ishiru barely even blinked as the rather smudged and scratched muzzle hovered two feet from his nose. "Y'know what?" he slurred, propping his chin on his right hand. "I don't know what's more idiotic: the B-movie dialogue or the fact that your gun looks like shit. When was the last time you cleaned it? The second Punic War?"
"What?" The kid was clearly surprised by this response. "What do you care? I've got the gun, so give me all your money!" He waved the shotgun for emphasis.
"We don't keep more than thirty bucks on the premises after dark, just like the sign on the door says," Ishiru recited. "Go rob the White Hen on Touhy, they don't lock the cash box 'til after midnight." He settled himself into a comfortable slouch against the register. "Oh, and by the way-" he added "-before you go, make sure you pay for those Twinkies your skinny pal just ate."
The skinny pal in question smirked, obviously on familiar ground. "What, are'ya gonna pull some kind of kung-fu bullshit on us? Hee-yawww!" he squealed, somehow contorting himself into a Picasso-esque pose while swiping another cellophane package with one hand.
The clerk raised an eyebrow. "No, I was in the SWAT for three years and you're making about fifteen really dumb-shit mistakes right now. So just pay for the damn Twinkies, clean that gun, and go rob someplace else, alright? I'm not interested in wrecking this place two days before I quit."
"SWAT. Right. Like I'm gonna believe that some 7-11 guy was in the friggin' SWAT!" the tough snickered. There was a muffled "mmph!" behind him, but he was too busy chortling to notice. "What're you gonna tell me now? Monkeys are flyin' outta my butt?"
"What about the fact that there's a big guy with a hockey stick right behind you?"
"Oh yeah! Sure, that's-"
WHACK!
Ishiru stepped around the counter and looked down at the prostrate thug, who was currently in dreamland with a plum-sized welt on the back of his head to greet him when he woke up. "Nice work. Thanks for the help."
"It's no problem," the other man said, lowering the hockey stick and picking up a huge jug of sports drink. "Young and stupid. No excuse, but it makes them easier to deal with."
"I especially liked the way you stuffed the skinny one in the freezer without making any noise."
"I've learned to improvise. With the proper application of a garbage bag, he's silent as the grave." The man held out his hand. "I'm Mikhail Konev. What do I owe you for the Gatorade?"
The other just shrugged one shoulder. "Suzuki. And after that performance, you can just take it, as far as I'm concerned. I've been working here long enough, without having to deal with a bunch of trainee robbers."
"Suzuki- like the car?"
"Mikhail- like the Russian asshat?"
"Russian, yes. 'Asshat' is a new one on me, but I think I can safely say I'm not one. You didn't answer my question."
Ishiru shrugged again. "Suzuki's a common name. No relation to anything profitable."
"Which explains why you're working in a 7-11."
"No, I'm working in a 7-11 because the Los Angeles SWAT kicked me out two years ago."
"That's right- I heard you talking to would-be Jesse James over there." Konev commented. "But if you're from LA, what're you doing in Chicago?"
"Praying my family doesn't track me down, mostly."
"Are they that bad?"
"You don't know half of it. Mom and Dad've been on a 'rediscovering your ethnic identity' kick for years, and when I got axed, Dad phoned me up and told me that I'd 'impugned' the 'family honor' and it was my duty to redeem myself. And no, I'm not kidding. I wish I was."
Konev stared. "Christ."
"That was pretty much my reaction, too."
"HALT, EVILDOERS!"
There was a dull popping sound, and a massive grayish-white cloud exploded through 7-11's open door, followed by the bright flare and blast of a flashbang. The sound and shockwave slammed into the two men, knocking them both to their knees. Ishiru coughed and gagged on the thick smoke, grabbing hold of the counter and trying to pull himself to his feet.
"Jesus- what the-!"
Suddenly, a red-gloved hand clamped onto his own, managing to pry it off the counter and shove him back down again. Ishiru cursed and swatted the hand away. "Nani yo?" He muttered, echoing himself a second later with the more generally known "What the fuck is going on here?!"
"What's happened here," a booming bass voice replied from over the counter, "Is that your criminal days are over! Come out with your hands above your head, or I shall be forced to punish you!"
"Screw you!" Ishiru hissed, rising up from behind the register. Then, as his brain processed the figure standing amidst the clouds of smoke, he felt his eyes bulge in sheer disbelief. The long-thought conclusion once more surfaced in his brain:
Yep. Civilization is doomed.
The man who was posing heroically amidst the now-decimated snack section was dressed in a form-fitting green spandex costume, with dark red gloves and boots and a large yellow trapezoid stenciled onto his chest. Squeezed into this peculiar ensemble was a quartet of limbs that Arnold Schwarzenegger would have envied, with muscles bulging from every square inch of arm, leg, chest and neck. Proudly displayed on the massive pectorals were the red letters "A.M."
"Yes! Gape in shock, servant of lawlessness!" the man roared in his basso profundo. "It is I, Amazing Man, and I shall deliver you into the firm hands of justice and law!"
Ishiru passed a hand over his forehead, half expecting to register the massive concussion that would explain what he was seeing. "Great. Just great. What did I drink to have this kind of hallucination?" He considered a moment. "Whatever it was, I could probably make a fortune smuggling it."
"NEVER!" the cartoonish apparition roared, picking up Ishiru's day-old can of soda and attempting to crush it in one hammy fist. After several unsuccessful attempts, he threw it over his shoulder and shook the aforementioned fist in the disbelieving clerk's face. "You shall not corrupt more innocents with your fiendish ways!"
"Look, pal, the only 'innocent' I've 'corrupted' said she was eighteen so it's her fault too!" Ishiru retorted. "But if you're looking for three holdup guys, two're on the floor over there and the last one is courting pneumonia in the walk-in freezer. Other than that, the only other evildoer in here is on the cover of Time."
The other man- if it really was a man and not an escaped bulldozer- reached over the counter and seized Ishiru by the neck. For such a muscular beast, his grip was surprisingly weak, and Ishiru easily broke it. What asylum did this guy escape from? He wondered, shoving the cash register into the man's abdomen and ducking behind the deli counter while he- It? - was winded. Another smoke canister conveniently went off by the frozen-foods section, quickly filling the air-conditioned store and preventing "Amazing Man" from seeing where his quarry had gone. (Incidentally, he registered his disappointment by knocking over the candy rack and trumpeting like a gelded elephant.)
Crouching under the wide glass case, Ishiru surveyed the situation. He could barely see through the clouds of thick smoke, but he seemed to make out the figure of Konev in the middle of a knock-down-drag-out fight with another over-muscled weirdo and some chick in a leather bikini; both of the attackers were wearing masks. This has got to be some kind of practical joke, Ishiru decided, turning back to Amazing Man, who was currently rampaging through the store looking for him. Sure, they're doing everything to the place except blowing it up, but I was gonna leave in a couple of hours anyway . . . the cops'll probably be here soon, too.
Then a flash of thought came to him: If the police come, I'm stuck here all night. I'll miss Braindead at eleven.
Ooooh, no. No way. Nobody got between Ishiru Suzuki and his slasher flicks. Carefully, he began inching his way back to his work station, keeping low to avoid the various canned soups that one of Konev's assailants with throwing with a notable lack of aim. Although a container of potato-leek came pretty close, Ishiru managed to reach his objective: a tray of cheap cigarette lighters kept under the counter.
Grasping ahold of one, Ishiru rose up from behind the trashed shelving and walked right up to Amazing Man, who seemed to be rooting through the ice cream freezer in search of him.
"Hey, dipshit!"
"So!" Amazing Man roared, wheeling around to spew spittle and three semi-digested Tic Tacs in Ishiru's face. "You surrender, foe of justice!"
"As if." Ishiru held up the tiny, wavering flame.
Amazing Man laughed uproarously. "Fool! Do you think that- bAAAh!"
"What I do think," Ishiru commented as the massive man shrieked and backpedaled frantically with his arm in flames, "Is that you should have made the fake biceps out of something fireproof."
"AYAAGHLAAAAH! GETITOFFMEGETITOFFMEGETITOFFMEEE!"
"How goddamn heroic." A crash sounded behind him. Wheeling around, Ishiru watched bemusedly as Konev repeatedly threw himself back into the heavy glass door of the soda cooler, his head and spine safely protected by the body of the dominatrix who was currently wrapped around his shoulders. She screamed and began flailing away at him with a water bottle, but another blow shut her up.
As the leather-clad woman fell to the floor, whimpering, her confederate- a decidedly American twenty-something in a Chinese costume- fell into a ludicrous stance and shouted: "Heathen Western man! For the damage you have inflicted on this fair damsel, I, the Ninth Dragon, shall strike you down!"
Konev didn't even bother replying to that. Instead, he swung his hockey stick once and slammed it into the side of the other's head. Mr. Ninth Dragon made no attempt to block, and crumpled soundlessly, a massive bruise already growing all over his face.
Applauding, Ishiru made his way through the decimated aisles towards Konev, who was calmly emptying broken bottles of hot sauce into the faces of his defeated nemeses: partly for the schadenfreude, but mostly to make sure they stayed down.
"What the hell was that all about?" Ishiru asked, surveying the 7-11. Or, more accurately, what was left of it.
The place resembled the devastation left in the wake of horrifying tropical storms and heavy metal world tours. Shelves had been tipped over and knocked everywhere. The floor was gritty with preprocessed cheese and puddles of energy drink were interspersed with the empty smoke canisters. In the freezer, the bruised robber was succumbing to the early stages of hypothermia. The cash register was lying open on the floor, dirty magazines were strewn everywhere, and both Ishiru and Konev were filthy with smoke, debris, and the remnants of the snack-food aisle, specifically Chocolicious Marshmallow Kakes.
"My manager is gonna have a fuckin' heart attack," Ishiru said after a moment of examining the damage.
Konev shrugged. "Then that is his problem. It could be much worse."
"AAAAAH! MY ARM! HEEEELP!"
"Then, of course, we get back to him."
"Should we put him out?"
"Why?"
"Good point." Stepping over the leather-wearing woman, Ishiru stared down at the face of the man in the Chinese costume. "What'd this guy call himself? Ninety Dragons?"
"Ninth Dragon," Konev supplied, wiping his shoe on the man's shirt. "Sounds like a restaurant."
"Or a bad karate movie." Ishiru added, nudging the man in question with one foot. "I think that was the idea. But whatever he was doing, that wasn't any kind of martial arts I know. Unless it was his own style."
"Somehow, I doubt it." The other observed, thoughtfully rubbing his short, bristly beard. "I never met a black belt who fell over when he tried to kick me in the knee."
"You're kidding."
"If only." Turning, Konev squinted up at the black security camera in the corner above them. "That thing working?"
Ishiru shrugged. "Probably."
"If so, I'd like a copy of today's tape."
"I'll second that."
"Oh, you too?"
"I don't get a chance to beat the crap out of someone that often," the clerk explained. "Certainly not legally. So when I end up fighting three freak shows in foam rubber suits alongside a guy with a Russian accent and a hockey stick . . . which reminds me. Why did you have that thing, anyway?"
Shrugging, Konev propped the stick against his leg. "Safety."
"From what? Rabid goalies?"
"Actually, yes. I part-time coach hockey at a school on Kedzie, which means I end up out on the field trying to persuade Mark and Conor that no, Calvin is not the target, even if he is cheering when the other side scores. It can get pretty nasty."
"School on Kedzie . . . that wouldn't happen to be the therapeutic day school-watchamajigger, would it?" At Konev's nod, Ishiru winced. "Ouch. No wonder."
"And why would you be concerned, foe of justice? Are you too plotting against them?!"
Ishiru and Konev turned as one, groaning as they saw Amazing Man standing heroically next to the magazine rack fifteen feet away. The burned biceps were now gone from one arm, leaving him with a ludicrously mismatched pair of limbs, but he still had that obnoxious 'Surrender, insignificant worm' look on his masked face.
"Why haven't you left yet?" Ishiru moaned, rubbing the left side of his head where a beauty of a migraine was beginning to build.
"In some cases, even the employee bathroom in a den of evil may be used in the service of good," Amazing Man announced, flexing his one inflated arm. "You have won the first round, villain, but the Antagonizers of Evil shall carry the day!"
Ishiru stared at him. "This is unreal. Even the worst comic books never talked like that. Did somebody bribe you to trash the place, or what?"
"Bribe? Amazing Man takes no bribes! The light in the eyes of the innocent, the pursuit and destruction of tyranny, the knowledge that I have made a difference in this world- these are all the money I need!"
"That and two bucks'll get you a cup of coffee," Konev muttered. He seemed to be taking Amazing Man's reappearance much more calmly than Ishiru, who was torn between exasperation, irritation, and strong inclination to introduce the man's face to a sharp pointy object..
Amazing Man scowled. "What would a piece of wretched scum know of such things?"
"Only what I garnered as a PhD," Konev replied, polishing the flat of the hockey stick on the side of his leg.
"You lie! I know the truth. You are a Communist spy!"
"Communist spy?" Konev stared at him, bewildered. Ishiru slapped himself in the forehead. This was getting too weird.
There was a moan from the floor. One of Amazing Man's compatriots, the woman in the leather bikini, was regaining consciousness and consequentially discovering the Tabasco in her eyes. "Oh GOD!" she shrieked, leaping to her feet and scrubbing at her eyes furiously. "GOD, you stupid PIGS! GOD!"
"Minutemaid!" Amazing Man cried, attempting to sweep her off her feet and failing miserably. Instead, he laid one oversized hand on her shoulder. "Are you hurt, my darling?"
"Just my . . . stupid . . . EYES . . .!" she muttered, blinking rapidly as she tugged at her costume. "God, I look AWFUL! Where IS that stupid pig-"
"You feel like you're in the Twilight Zone yet?" Ishiru asked Konev.
"Oh yeah. Definitely."
Half an later . . .
"You needn't thank us, officer. It's all in a day's work!"
The policeman handcuffing the shivering robber glanced at Amazing Man skeptically. In his opinion, the whole thing was a crock. The character in the green was obviously lying through his teeth, but his story was corroborated by two other whack-jobs, the clerk who'd been on duty, and some guy with a hockey stick. And the three thieves weren't exactly in any condition to dispute it, as two were currently wending their way to the hospital with multiple broken bones and the last one was completely silent. Either that or his lips had frozen together.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Al Knopf, who was really wishing that he was anywhere else, was taking the statements of the Ninth Dragon and the now Tabasco-free Minutemaid. Unfortunately for him, the two had apparently taken "What happened here tonight?" as "Tell me your entire life stories, in mind-numbing detail, please."
". . . studied with the legendary master Li Oh Nard for two seasons, then went to Mount Fang in the Kawasatsunuki Pass to defeat the Serpent Lord of the Thirteen Blades. After that, I returned to America to help my old ally Amazing Man battle crime in the great city of Ypsilanti . . ."
On the pad of Lt. Knopf, this became:
Witness identifies self as 'Ninth Dragon,' insists that he is some kind of karate champ- given discipline, 'Ka Su Ni Ma Ke Do Khyi.' Appears to be about twenty-three years old, brown hair, brown eyes, foam-rubber muscles, rub-on tattoos on face. Delusional, possibly an escapee of some kind. Further note: thorough blood work and urine check. If not crazy, he's got to be on something.
Over at the now-destroyed counter, Ishiru was slumped on his chair, elbows on the shelving, still somewhat fazed by the idea that his life could be completely screwed up in just under an hour. After Minutemaid had woken up, Ishiru and Konev had just barely managed to convince her and Amazing Man that no, they were not attempting to rob the 7-11, and yes, the unconscious guys on the floor were. Amazing Man had remained firmly convinced of their guilt, of course, but Ishiru was too disgusted to care.
Then, of course, those two had woken up the Ninth Dragon, called the police, and taken credit for quote, 'apprehending the fiendish fiends,' unquote.
Today was becoming phenomenally weird.
By the time the cops appeared, both Ishiru and Konev had been fielding idiotic queries ("Are you sure you're not evil?") and clich�-laden proclamations ("We shall not rest until justice and peace is once more delivered into the yearning arms of this nobly beleaguered city!") unto the ends of even the Russian's patience; thus, when Lt. Knopf arrived on the scene, they chose the path of least resistance and mechanically agreed with everything the Antagonizers of Evil (what the hell kind of a name was that, anyway?) said. It was late, anyway. Too late for dealing with crackerjacks in Halloween costumes.
When the inevitable questioning had begun, Konev tactfully disappeared into the employee bathroom, claiming a rare intestinal disease. None of the cops were interested in performing an emergency colonoscopy, so that left Ishiru sitting at the counter, answering anything asked him with one of a carefully selected list of random responses.
"Before these three halted the thieves, was anything stolen?"
"Yeah."
"What items?"
"Uh-huh."
"Mr. Suzuki?"
"Yeah."
"Mr. Suzuki!"
Ishiru jumped. "What?!"
The questioning officer was tapping one foot on the floor, looking rather put out. "What was stolen?"
"Well, there was-" Ishiru quickly reviewed the events in his brain. "Just some Twinkies . . . oh, and a big jug of Gatorade. Damned if I know where they put it." Though you might try checking the men's room . . .
"Was that all?"
"It should be . . ." His practiced eye swept the floor. "Hold it. There was a bunch of . . . uh . . . specialty publications that we kept under the counter. They're- never mind."
His eye had caught on Amazing Man, who now had a large and dramatically bloodstained bandage wrapped around one arm, concealing the remnants of polystyrene bicep. The mysteriously re-inflated bicep, which was currently giving off the telltale crinkle of glossed paper every time it was moved. No further explanation required.
"Mr. Suzuki? Is anything wrong?" The officer sounded concerned. He didn't want the only normal person at this particular crime scene to break down; if that happened he might have to deal with Amazing Man and company.
"Nah." Ishiru shook his head. "Forget it."
"All right, then." The questioner obviously didn't believe him, but let it slide anyway. After all, it had been a LONG night.
Muttering to himself, Ishiru glanced at his watch for the twentieth time. 10:27. Hard to believe that less than an hour ago, his life had been somewhat normal. Now, he was surrounded by cranky cops and multiple doofuses (doofi?) in costumes. Bad costumes. Who the hell did these people think they were- super heroes?
Yeah, right.
"Never fear, ma'am!" Apparently, Amazing Man had found a female cop among the crowd. "From now on, let evil lurkers everywhere know that this fair city is under the protection of the Antagonizers of Evil! We shall stand for no corruption, no disgusting abuse of trust! Naught that should seek to besmirch this windy city shall stand against us!"
And elsewhere:
"Sir, if you would please sign this-"
"Bah! Foolish man of the West! The Ninth Dragon signs nothing!"
Since it was now apparent that he wouldn't be escaping this particular lunatic asylum any time soon, and definitely not in time for Braindead, Ishiru resumed vegetating behind the remains of the counter. Although this time, he was more interested in the generous cut of the Minutemaid's leather bikini than the clock.
Hoo yeah. Tasty.
"God, what are you looking at, you stupid jerk?" the woman suddenly demanded, wheeling around and glaring at him through her cats'-eyed mask.
"Your ass. Why?"
"Well, cut it out!" A solidly frozen carton of ice cream accompanied these words, making contact with Ishiru's head at, according to him, approximately Mach 5. "Hmph," the dominatrix muttered, turning away as Ishiru began probing the newly tenderized area of his skull. "God, men are dumb."
"Takes one to know one."
"God, that is the STUPIDEST line I have EVER heard," Minutemaid fumed, slapping one gloved hand against a partially demolished stack of beer cases. "I mean, God, what a bunch of IDIOT PERVERTS! God!"
Ishiru rolled his eyes. She may be sexy, but she also seemed to have something extremely sharp up her posterior. "I could give a flying fuck, babe," he called over his shoulder, grabbing his jacket as he did so. "I'm gonna go get wasted."
"Good riddance!" she yelled, throwing up her arms. "GOD!"
On the broken sidewalk outside the 7-11, the early April winds were whirling and shuddering around Ishiru, forcing him to pull up his collar and shiver futilely. Traffic at the corner of the street was moving as quickly as ever, and he knew from experience that the light would take forever to change. Directionless, he checked his cheap wristwatch and groaned at the time. Wonderful. 10:31. Nothing decent showing in the neighborhood theatres, there was no time to walk to the Music Box for the Braindead screening, and he had probably just lost his job because of the slobs in Lycra.
I wonder if I could sell my life as a reality TV show, he wondered as the sharp wind blew a week-old soggy newspaper into his face. There's about enough boredom and pointless crap involved. Tugging at the collar of his coat again, Ishiru silently ticked off his plans of action.
Go home and watch TV?
Nah. Nothing good on.
Head up into the Loop?
Nothing up there but Starbucks. Coffee is the last thing you want at this time of night.
Watch a movie?
Again, nothing good available.
Go to a mall and cruise?
At suburban prices? Not a chance.
"Suzuki!"
Ishiru jumped, but he recognized Konev's voice, turning to watch the Russian emerge from a nearby alley with hockey stick in hand. "What?" he asked bluntly, hunching up his shoulders slightly. He'd been here two years, and he still couldn't get used to this goddamn Midwestern weather. "Shouldn't you be inside with a bladder infection?"
"Intestinal. And since you seemed to be doing such a good job at looking sick, I decided not to add to it and snuck out the bathroom window." Konev fell into step beside Ishiru. "What was all that back there?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Ishiru replied, running one hand through his shaggy black hair. "Probably a prank, or some kind of candid camera show. Nobody would be that willfully stupid."
Konev snorted. "People have been that willfully stupid for hundreds of years, Suzuki. Credit where credit is due."
"Don't you think you're exaggerating?"
"No."
"At least you're honest." Ishiru swore and rubbed his head. "Jesus Christ, what a nightmare. I'm gonna be remembering that one for years."
"Me, too. Want to go get drunk?"
"Who's buying?"
"The WSIL coaches' expense account."
"Lead the way."