The Edger Collection

by David Beem

Judas, Ted, and Ed turn to face the direction Sheldon is pointing, where a short Asian dude in a Chargers jersey, cargo shorts, and flip-flops is sneaking their cow behind a security guard stationed at an elevator about twenty yards from where they’re standing.

  “The saboteur!” yells Judas. “That’s our cow!”

  Historic Sorting Out of the Complicated Simultaneous Action, as chronicled by Herodotus (c. 484—c. 425 BCE)

  At this point, events proceed faster than the speed of your basic universal narrative.

  Shmuel, deducing Wang needs help, and taking inspiration from the football game, shoots from his chair, a flabby, low-flying cannonball, and sacks the nearest of the two men-in-black near the women’s room. Not to be outstripped by a civilian deputy, Reggie races toward the second man, Taser shoved out in front. He opens his mouth to yell, “Stop right there!” but, as he has consumed one too many pot brownies, says instead, “Stopper-rare!”

  The naughty little girl in the Wonder Woman shirt who’s just had her mouth rinsed out with soap for saying “shit,” emerges from the women’s room, spots Reggie charging toward her with a Taser and yelling, “Stopper-rare!”—and screams. Wonder Girl’s mother, who goes to kickboxing classes four days a week and CrossFit the other three, also screams. Recalling her training, she launches into an uncanny impersonation of a traditional Cossack Dance, kicking all four men in the nuts. Wonder Girl ceases screaming long enough to appreciate her mother’s martial arts application, for she has brought her coloring book to all her mother’s classes and has a vested interest in seeing it all come together. Satisfied the immediate danger is neutralized, Wonder Girl resumes her screaming.

  Wang, meanwhile, squeezes his arms around Chicowgo’s neck—and just in time; Chicowgo bounds off in terror toward Gate C. Wang’s feet lift from the ground. He hangs on for life and limb. And, amidst all the screaming, he lends his own to the rest, a pure-in-tone boy soprano which cuts high above the Amazonian battle cries coming from the restroom area and the crowd noise coming from the field.

  At the cow-less cow display, Judas Christian poses the question, “What the fuck?”

  On the opposite side of the stadium, completely unaware of the chaos unfolding near Gate C, Christine of the El Cerrito Cluck-n-Pray wrinkles her nose. A terrible smell has risen as if from a Jurassic bog. She raises an arm, sniffs her pits. She calmly locates her purse, roots around for deodorant, finds it, and applies through the neck hole of her shirt.

  Meanwhile…

  Mistaking Judas’s question as rhetorical, Ted and Ed make no reply, instead drawing their identical Sig Sauer P225 A1 Nitron Compacts and deciding without hesitation it is time to be getting on with the shooting part of their job description.

  Two other Nostradamus agents, Ned and Zed, these stationed near Gate C, draw their sidearms also. They aim at the cow bearing down on them, uncaring it is carrying an Asian male with a beautiful falsetto voice on its back.

  Wang, seeing two men with guns aimed at him, clenches his eyes and lies as flat as possible astride the cow. A bullet passes directly through the middle of the airspace where Wang’s head had been, and into the tile on the wall near the women’s bathroom. It shatters with a crack and rains asbestos on Shmuel, Reggie, Fred, and Jed, who are writhing on the floor and cradling pomegranate-size testicles.

  Seventy-seven NFL fans milling about the mezzanine level near Gate C notice the charging cow, screaming, and gunshot—and freak out.

  Six ninja shuriken slice through the air in such quick succession, they may as well have been thrown simultaneously. All six find the shooting hands of their targets. The Nostradamus agents drop their weapons and cry out like shih tzus whose tails have been slammed in car doors because their owners were checking their phones and not paying attention to what they were doing. Smoke bombs detonate in three precise locations. When the smoke clears, Ted, Ed, Fred, Jed, Ned, and Zed are hanging upside down by their twelve ankles—and, to the shock of seventy-seven freaking-out NFL fans, one armored space ninja glides to the ground on an unseen cable obscured by the still-clearing smoke.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  This is how it feels to be a superhero. My heart is trying to punch a hole in my chest. My hands are shaking. I’m weak in the knees, struggling to catch my breath, and my lower back hurts from being hunched over for so long. Also, I have to pee.

  I clench up, hold my breath, and leap from the beam, the grappling-hook reel whistling as I glide to the ground. My boots touch down. A shock careens through my spine. I run off the momentum before turning on my heels and skidding to a stop. The grappling gun shrinks into a tiny marble, and I slip it back inside its pouch on my belt. I take in my surroundings in a hurried sweep. Big, strong guys cowering behind trash cans. Screaming kids clutched in fearful parents’ arms. A group of teenage girls racing into the women’s room. Police charging toward me, guns drawn.

  “On your knees! Get down!”

  Every muscle in my body clenches up. I raise my hands in surrender.

  Edger! calls Bruce Lee.

  Is my supersuit bulletproof? Honestly, I can’t remember. Seems like that should’ve been my first question, hindsight being 20/20 and all.

  Edger! Bruce Lee calls again.

  I go to my knees, hands still raised.

  [What are you doing?] asks Hanzo.

  [I’m banking on one of you guys knowing how to get me out of this,] I reply.

  A police officer built like a Hummer shares a cautious glance with his partner before holstering his gun and unfastening a pair of handcuffs from his belt. Bruce Lee and Hattori Hanzo fight for control of me. Hanzo will kill. That fact is shining like a beacon in my head.

  “Lie down!” yells Hummer. He circles behind me and unnecessarily kicks me in the back—in the process royally pissing off both dead martial arts legends in my head. My body goes cold. I shiver as one of the two seizes control, there’s no telling which. I tumble forward, roll, come back up to my knees, and unleash a batch of marbles. They transform mid-flight into throwing stars. Shots are fired. Shooting hands are impaled.

  “Ooh—sorry about that!” I say in my supersuit voice. A wave of relief surges through me as, from the Collective Unconscious, I know immediately no one’s been shot.

  Hummer darts in from behind, his arm reaching for a headlock. I spin and lift my arm over and under his, easily trapping his arm above the elbow and forcing him to his toes. My left forearm strikes him hard in the jugular. He crashes to his knees, gasping for breath, his body turning limp. I jump-spin-back-kick him in the liver, and Hummer’s out like sauerkraut.

  “I’m sorry!” I yell, dizzy from all the spinning.

  Movement in my peripheral vision. I whip around. The three remaining cops are not where I left them. Two have scooted off behind a broad concrete column and are nursing injured hands. The third has managed to draw his Taser. He staggers forward, trying to get into range.

  “Oh, yeah, no,” I say stupidly. “Um… I don’t want any of the voices in my head to have to, um…you know, hurt you.”

  Fifteen feet, says Killmaster from out of nowhere.

  Welcome to the party, I reply, raising my hands and taking several retreating steps.

  That model’s range is fifteen feet, says Killmaster. If you don’t want to get zapped, don’t let him within fifteen feet, sir.

  [If there isn’t to be any killing, may I suggest we leave?] says Hanzo, his psychic sense thoroughly exasperated.

  Hey—these are Americans, Sushi Roll, says Killmaster. Cool your Japanese jets.

  Would you two shut up already and just get us out of here? I reply.

  My right hand snatches the marble-size grappling hook; the left drops a smoke bomb. I activate the grappling hook, and it transforms into full size. A minute later, we’re scaling a beam on the outer wall of Qualcomm Stadium like Spider-Man.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  To clarify, it isn’t much of a wall. It’s a concrete beam running parallel to another concrete beam
spaced six feet apart. Then it’s another four yards to the next pair of beams, and it repeats like that all the way around the stadium.

  I’m dangling from the cable against a concrete beam, my heartbeat resonating back at me. A bird swoops past my head, startling me. I flinch and twist crazily on the line. I’m gripping the line so hard, my hands are shaking. I force myself to relax. I swallow and my back slams into the wall, and I spot the bird again. It shrinks in scale against a dizzying backdrop of evacuating crowds, cars, and flagpole tops that look like toothpicks stuck to cardboard slabs. I shake my head, trying to clear it.

  The bird stretches its wings. It rides the gust that earlier froze me in mid-climb, a million years ago now, back when I was only terrified the line would break. Back when I was only terrified I’d drop into a tailgater’s barbecue pit. Oh, times were simpler then.

  The bird. It’s a speck now. A speck landing on one of the middle ledges of a parking garage. It hops inside, and I am left alone in the wind. I twist and face the wall—clench my butt.

  You don’t wanna shit yourself on an op, sir, says Killmaster.

  Oh, really? I snap. Ya think?

  Tactical disadvantage, is all I’m saying, Killmaster replies. They’ll smell you coming from a mile away, sir.

  [I agree with Captain Kill,] says Hanzo.

  Let’s just focus on rescuing Dad, okay? Bruce?

  A picture forms in my mind’s eye. Two Nostradamus agents leading Dad at gunpoint across the rim at the top of the stadium. They’re on the opposite side from me, near the scoreboard. But there’s more than just a picture. If I concentrate, I can feel their fear. And how hot the sun is through their black blazers, the slickness of the backs of their necks. The sweat on their spines. And I can feel their intentions: they want to take Dad alive. They want to use him to capture me.

  So this is a trap? I ask.

  Let’s hear it for Captain Obvious, Killmaster replies. Sir.

  “Pfft. But there’s only two of them,” I say out loud.

  Says Mr. About-to-Shit-His-Pants, says Killmaster. Sir.

  Nostradamus always has a plan, warns Bruce Lee.

  Then what’s their plan? I ask. I mean, you can just hack into their brains and figure it out. Right?

  I wait there, dangling, my twisting gut mirroring what I’m doing on the line. My thumb strokes the button on the grappling gun that reels me up. It’s all I can do not to press it and be done with the climb.

  Not before we know what we’re up against, sir, says Killmaster.

  What’s the holdup? I ask. Can’t you just instantly read their minds?

  [There’s something wrong with their minds,] says Hanzo.

  Yes, says Bruce Lee.

  [Origami.]

  Yes, Bruce Lee says again.

  I made an origami chicken once, says Killmaster.

  Origami? I say. What’re you guys talking about?

  [Their minds are folded, as if from one piece of paper. Many, many folds.]

  Yes, says Bruce Lee. Strange…

  Book said it was supposed to be a paper crane, says Killmaster. But I got a chicken. I fucking hate origami.

  I can unfold their minds, says Bruce Lee. If I had more time.

  We don’t have time, I argue. They have Dad.

  Sir, says Killmaster. If you finish your climb from here, they’ll see us. They’ll have all the time in the world to prepare, and we’ll have lost the element of surprise.

  [I agree,] says Hanzo.

  I shake my head. No. If I’m up here much longer, I am going to crap my pants. So they’ll see us coming. So what? Maybe we can talk. Work something out. We don’t know unless we try.

  Hattori Hanzo, Bruce Lee, and Lieutenant Killmaster make no reply, but their psychic sense is broadcasting their disapproval loud and clear. But in the end, their disapproval for a superhero with the poopy pants is stronger.

  “Right,” I say out loud. “So, my plan it is.”

  Chapter Sixty

  There are three men at the top of Qualcomm Stadium standing in front of construction scaffolding at the edge on the opposite side. One is Dad—and the other two flanking him are armed. One of them has a gun to Dad’s back. I’m so afraid, I could throw up. I’m too close now to let them kill Dad. I only just got him back. They can’t kill him. I won’t let them. They watch me as I jog along the rim toward them.

  Vertigo sets in. The walkway, which had seemed plenty wide only a second ago, seems like it’s shrinking in from either side. I feel like I’m on a tightrope. I’m hot and sweaty. My arms and legs are getting heavy. Inside the supersuit, there’s only stale, filtered air. What I wouldn’t give for a nice breeze to settle my stomach.

  I tell myself to ignore the guns and focus on Dad. He’s right there, next to the scaffolding. Too far to see his face clearly, but now that I’m so close, I’m impatient to touch him. How long has it been since I’ve done that? It’s incredible what a person can miss. Like that brown cable cardigan he used to wear. I can see him in his favorite reading chair. The cardigan smells dusty, like his old medical journals. Dad isn’t wearing it now. He’s wearing a Chargers jersey, Bermuda shorts, and flip-flops. But the sight of him connects me to the cardigan, him, and the family unit we once had.

  His hair is grayer. His face, weathered. He’s exactly as he was in the Collective Unconscious. I try to send him reassurances through the Collective Unconscious. I don’t know if it’ll work. I don’t know if he can feel me, or read my mind, but I do it anyway. It’s okay, Dad. I won’t let them hurt you. I won’t let them hurt me or Gran either. We’re all going to be okay. I promise.

  The agent who isn’t holding the gun to Dad’s head raises his hand and calls out, “That’s far enough.”

  It takes a few more steps before I can run off my momentum and stop. I raise my hands to show I’m unarmed.

  “Remove the ring,” says the agent.

  [This is a bad idea,] says Hanzo.

  Yeah, says Killmaster. I agree with Hong Kong Phooey.

  Don’t take off the suit, Edge, says Bruce Lee.

  Still reaching for the sky, I stretch my fingers out to show my palms. Carefully, my left hand crosses to find my right ring finger.

  Bruce Lee gasps. Edge, no…!

  I twist the ring. The back of my gloves become semitranslucent, then solid black goo. It slithers across my skin, retreating into the ring. Hot, fresh air touches my face and neck, shoulders and legs, like it’s chasing the shrinking suit along my skin until, finally, the last of it squeezes into the ring. I’m exposed. I realize belatedly I’ve committed one of the biggest cardinal sins any superhero can commit. I’ve revealed my secret identity.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Even though I should probably be collapsing into a puddle of terror, Dad’s grizzled face is filling me with hope. His jaw is set. The lines around his eyes are tight. I can see the younger man inside him. I can see the person who caught me when I fell off the monkey bars after I tried to fly like Superman. I can see his face when he told me to never try that again.

  “It’ll be okay,” I say, leaving off the word “Dad,” on the off chance these Nostradamus dudes don’t already know.

  Oh, they know, says Killmaster. Trust me, sir. They know.

  “Now give us the ring,” says the agent.

  Bad idea. Ba-ad idea, says Bruce Lee.

  [Let me kill them. These men need killing.]

  Just relax everyone, I answer. I take a deep breath and close my fist over the ring.

  “First, lower your weapons and let him go,” I reply.

  The agent scoffs at me. “This is how it’s gonna go down. First, you’re going to carefully hand me the ring. Then, you and him”—he jerks his head at Dad—“are coming with us.”

  A silent fury builds in my gut.

  I force a chuckle and scratch my forehead to affect a nonchalance I’m not feeling. I stroll a few feet to my right, closer to the ledge. My stomach flops, then clenches. A cold chill fans out in my back t
he way it does before I throw up.

  “What are you doing?” the agent snaps.

  I thrust my fist out over the ledge, swallow, and focus on settling my stomach. The ring is hard and digging into my palm. Bile is rising in my throat. I’m taking long, deep breaths.

  [Settle down,] says Hanzo. [Wait—try this.]

  The flavor of bile vanishes and is replaced by the aftertaste of pickled ginger; my stomach begins to relax.

  [How did you do that?] I ask.

  [Ancient Japanese secret,] Hanzo replies.

  “Come away from there before you pass out.” The agent steps out from the construction scaffolding and waves the barrel of his gun to show me where he’d like me to stand. “You’ve got no head for heights, kid. Anybody can see that.”

  I stand up straighter, swallow, and again thrust my hand over the ledge. I take a step nearer to underscore the point, and another round of pickled ginger hits my taste buds from nowhere. “If you want this ring, you’re going to let him go.”

  The two agents exchange an uncertain glance. And now that I’m no longer worried about throwing up, it hits me—they’re identical. They look like they stepped right out of The Matrix. Same height, same build. Same bushy eyebrows poking out from above the Ray-Bans.

  “No,” says the agent holding Dad. “You’re not gonna do it. You know what that thing is. You won’t destroy it. You’re just delaying the inevitable.”

  “Edger,” says Dad, and the sound of him saying my name is like two hands reaching into my chest and squeezing my heart. His eyes droop at the corners. His lips curl into a sad smile. My fist comes down. I step in from the ledge. Dad nods, and the agent not holding him starts walking toward me—until his head snaps back—and, a split second later, the crack of a gunshot rings out. The agent topples over the side of the ledge.

  I duck and cover. The second agent’s head snaps back as a second gunshot echoes across the stadium. He bangs into a bar on the side of the scaffolding, then topples over the ledge. I spin one hundred eighty degrees in search of the shooter—but there’s no one.