Faux Hawk clumsily danced around his staggering friend in an attempt to land one of his wild flailing blows. Patrick couldn't tell what the man was holding, and his long arms gave him some reach, so he didn't want to take any chances. He pulled his left hand back to pop the release tab in his sleeve, rooted his feet and made a pushing gesture that sent a “beam” of white liquid that hit The flailing attacker square in the chest like a fire hose. As it splashed off of the man's chest, Patrick made an exaggerated grasping and pulling motion, gathering the liquid back into the tubes.
As the first attacker pulled himself back to his feet, Patrick dropped his flashlight, popped the tab on his right sleeve, and chopped the legs out from under him, with a wide, flowing white sheet.
“Do yourself a favor and stay down this time.”
His words were drowned out by Faux Hawk's furious battle cry. Who decides to cover thirty feet screaming the whole way? Patrick wondered, as he whipped his left arm, sending out a liquid bullwhip that wrapped around his weapon hand. He clenched his fist tight, and Faux Hawk winced in pain, as his hand felt like there were several thick rubber bands, wrapped one too many times, cutting off the circulation. With a quick yank, Patrick pulled the weapon from from his grasp, almost dislocating the wrist and elbow as well. Both men eyed the weapon as it hit the lawn. It took a second for Patrick to figure out what it was.
“Is that — did you just swing a gardening trowel at me?”
The man's face showed a mixture of confusion, and anger, with a pinch of embarrassment. His eyes darted back and forth between Patrick and the gardening tool. He faked a step toward the improvised weapon, but changed directions to attack. It was an impressive tactic that could have worked if the distance between the two was shorter. Faux Hawk's charge split the distance between the two in a fair amount of time. Once in striking distance, he threw a big right hand; undisciplined and full of rage, but dangerous nonetheless. Patrick shuffled a half step back, leaned his chin away, and let the blow fall short. He took the offensive, bringing his right knee up to the same level as his stomach and swung his foot straight out. He caught Faux Hawk right in the groin, fully flush with the instep of his foot. It was a text book front snap kick, and had no problem dropping the taller man like a sack of milk. Three years of karate as a teen, and the first technique Patrick had learned on the first day was still his most high percentage attack.
He turned back to the other man. The shorter man, who had failed to heed the warning and was approaching with his fists clenched. Definitely untrained, and inexperienced, he held his hands too high and his elbows flared out, exposing his ribs, and partially obstructing his vision. Patrick almost felt sorry for him. He decided not to draw this out any further, since it wasn't the best time to be giving this young-tough a lesson on the finer points of pugilism.
Clapping his hands together, then pulling them apart for flair, Patrick formed a smooth, white sphere, that looked like a cue ball. The ball grew slowly, fed by the tubes in his sleeves, and matching the pace of his hands as they moved outward. It had taken a long time to reach this level of control, but the sphere maintained it's solid, almost marble-like appearance, as Patrick gave a sadistic grin. The man dropped his hands, and looked on in awe. This scene was not making any sense to him at all.
“Who are you, man?”
The question caught him off guard. Over a year of doing this and he had never once thought of a name or identity he should be using. Now was definitely not the time to start thinking up some clever names, but Patrick couldn't help it. He felt the need to reply to the man's question with something witty that he could bring up to Trevor the next time they hung out.
He realized that he wasn't focusing on the actual threat. The man's eyes widened, as he lunged forward. It didn't take much to stop the momentum. Patrick hit him full on in the face, like when someone takes a basketball to the grill from a poorly aimed chest pass. Except this “basketball” hit like a medicine ball. The shorter man woke up sitting next to his friend. He clutched at his chest, wringing the wet fabric of his shirt with a balled up fist, pulled his wet hand away and weakly looked up at the ominous figure towering over him.
“Is this milk?” he croaked through his swollen facial features.
“Two percent. It was on sale this week.”
* * *
Patrick heard the tell-tale knocking on his apartment door. The same rhythmic rapping, mimicking a disco beat he didn't recognize, that signaled Trevor's arrival. He got up off the couch just far enough to turn the knob and lightly pull the door open. He let the momentum swing it open, while he sat back down. Trevor walked into the room, closing the door behind him.
“Hey, Patrick.”
“Hey, Sponge Bob.”
“Still not funny,” Trevor said. “No irritable bowel syndrome tonight?”
“Still not funny,” Patrick said. “You really have to ask me that every time you see me?”
“It's been a week since you've had some time off. I figured you were too busy crime fighting.”
“Nah, I took the week off from the streets to pick up some evening shifts at work. I'm trying to save up, so I can get an outfit together for the warmer months.”
“Why didn't you mention that?”
“I did. I updated my Facebook status to 'Picking up some extra shifts at work, so I can save up some scratch.', and I know you saw it, because you liked it.”
“No I meant the crime fighting stuff. And the new outfit.”
“Really? I'm supposed to talk about that publicly?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.
Patrick figured he wouldn't be able to finish watching the show he recorded to his DVR, so he just turned the TV off, to discuss something that had been weighing on his mind all week.
“Last week, I took out a couple of thugs, and one of them asked me who I was supposed to be.” He said.
“And?”
“And nothing. I don't have a name, or an identity. I never thought to come up with one.”
Trevor's eyes lit up. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He cleared his throat, unrolled an imaginary scroll, and adjusted his non-existent reading glasses.
“How about, White Shadow, or White Justice?”
“No and definitely no. Can you not hear how awful those are? They both sound like racist organizations.”
“Intolerance,” Trevor said, undaunted. “Double meaning, because you're also lactose intolerant.”
Patrick put his head in his hands and zoned out while Trevor continued. How much longer was this going to last? He thought Trevor must have rattled off about a dozen more names, and even though none of them registered, he was certain they were all equally bad. He tried his best to focus again.
“Two Percent? Or just Milk?”
“Please stop.”
“Alright, but here's the winner right here...Pro Teen...Because, you know, milk has —”
“I know what milk has!” Patrick was grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I'm not a teen, and even if I was, it's still a dumb name.”
“So you haven't been drinking milk to use your powers?” Trevor asked, changing the subject.
Finally, a topic that he could tolerate. “No, and here's the best part, I've been gaining more control without needing to drink the milk. I think I'm finally getting the hang of this stuff.”
“You mean you can fly now?”
Patrick stared at Trevor, genuinely confused by the question. His mouth hung open partially, while he did his best to comprehend how that would actually apply. Noticing his dumbfounded expression, Trevor reworded the question.
“Like, can you manipulate the milk in your suit to fly around?”
“Have you been waiting for me to develop that power?” Patrick asked. “That makes almost no sense. That would be like grabbing your own collar to jump higher.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry you think that was such a dumb question, guy who can control milk.” Trevor said, adding air quotes with his fingers t
o the end of his statement.
Patrick laughed. He did seem awfully defensive lately, especially for someone with his odd ability. Although he seemed annoyed at the discussions with his friend, truthfully he actually enjoyed them. It's not like he had anyone else to talk to, and Trevor was there when his power actually manifested in their High School years. Patrick finally relaxed again, sitting back and resuming his slouched posture, normally reserved for watching TV and playing video games.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. I'm still learning new stuff about this everyday. Maybe I'll add 'trying to fly' to the list as well.” He added, hoping to lighten up the mood.
“What do you do with all the used milk anyway?” Trevor asked.
“I just dump it. It's not like you can put it back in the carton, and reuse it.”
“Why not? Have you tried drinking it?”
“Yeah, I did, actually.” Patrick said. His face showed the distaste for the recycled fluids, after a night of stopping evil-doers. “The stuff's not exactly cheap nowadays, so I tried to keep some on hand to drink for that extra boost.”
“ Does it go bad or something?”
“I don't even know what happens, but whenever I pour it out it's warm. Not body heat warm. It's actually warm as if you heated it up.” He said. “Also, it's got a funny flavor. It tastes like burnt food, with a kind of carbon aftertaste to it.”
“Ugh.” Trevor sneered.
“Not to mention, I still get the same stomach problems, so clearly the lactose is still in there.”
Trevor picked up one of the graphic novels on Patrick's coffee table, absently flipping through the pages as he continued the conversation.
“What kind of new tricks are you picking up with your new-found control?”
“I've got better awareness of the liquid as a whole. I can hold shapes better.” Patrick said, remembering how perfect the sphere from his last outing felt. “So now I can make something like a perfectly formed ball, rather than a glob of milk that looks like it's in zero-g.”
“Awesome.” Trevor said. He put the book down, and walked into the kitchen with a smirk.
Patrick watched him leave the room, almost afraid of what he was trying to pull. He heard the clanking of glasses, then the cabinet door close. After a few seconds the refrigerator door closed with a thud. It took great effort to keep from rolling his eyes, watching Trevor walk back into the room with a glass of milk.
“So you can show me some of your new tricks, right?”
Smiling and shaking his head, Patrick made a quick whipping gesture upward with his right hand, pulling a bit of the milk out of the glass. He brought it over, forming a perfect marble, resting in his palm. He grabbed it with his left hand, dug into his right pocket and pulled out his front door key. Pinching the soft white marble in one hand, and the key in the other, he concentrated, creating a near perfect replica.
“Whoa, can you unlock the door with that?” Trevor said, legitimately impressed.
“It's not solid enough.” Patrick said, using the actual key to bend the fake one.
“Alright, how about this?” Trevor gulped down the milk, wiped his mouth with the palm of his free hand, held his arms out wide, like he was king of the world, and added, “Move me.”
“Wow, that's your worst idea yet.”
“Put the milk back in the glass.” Trevor said with a smile, and opened his mouth wide.
“I stand corrected.”
* * *
The past couple of weeks were uneventful, but Patrick spent as much time as he could honing his skills wielding White Justice. Although it was an awful name, he did find it funny, but he knew terrible names had a way of sticking when he and Trevor joked around too much. He still didn't have an actual identity to toss at the bad guys, since he wasn't out prowling the streets lately. Patrick just used his power to help out in some small way, no longer worried about any notoriety for now. He wasn't a brand building guru, nor did have a gift for social media. Although he had to admit, Batman was onto something when created a symbol for people, good and bad, to latch onto.
He would really have to put some thought into it, but for now, he was almost out of milk, and needed to make a quick stop to the corner store after his latest evening shift. Patrick pulled his jacket closed, holding it tight to keep the biting wind out, and jogged the rest of the way to the entrance of the small convenience store. One last shiver escaped, as he rubbed his hands together while walking to to the cooler. Probably should have brought gloves he thought, as he opened the door to grab some milk.
Patrick's mind wandered as he stared at the milk prices. He had a hard time focusing, and didn't want to stand in front of the mechanically cooled air, knowing he would have to step back outside after this. Shutting the door, he crouched lower while trying to make up his mind. The biggest decision was how many gallons did he feel like lugging home. Knowing he would have to put on a fake small-talk smile and chuckle about how he “loves milk” if he grabbed three or more, he decided two would be fine for the next couple of days.
He grabbed the two jugs and gently guided the door shut with his foot, just as some rowdy voices caught his attention up front. Great, he thought, a couple of drunk twenty-somethings found their way in for some munchies. He took his time walking up to the front while keeping his eyes low, hoping they would be done by the time he approached the counter.
“Hey man, you too.” A voice pulled his focus toward the commotion.
Patrick looked up at the man addressing him. A stocky fellow, with an impatient look in his eyes, he was talking over his right shoulder while pointing a pistol at the frightened man behind the counter. He slowly brought both hands up, each of his thumbs hooked into the handles of a gallon of milk, while he eyed the second man.
“Alright, I'm just going to put these down slowly.” He said.
The second man, armed with a knife, was looking around nervously. Both men had the bottom half of their faces covered with long scarves. The man with the gun wore a knit hat pulled low, and the man with the knife had the hood of his sweater up. Patrick decided he should make sure the man behind the counter was clear of the line of fire before trying anything. He made slow, yet exaggerated movements, hoping to draw most of the attention his way. Just as he hoped, the gunman lost his patience and swung the pistol toward Patrick.
“Hey I said —”
Before he could line the weapon up, the milk in Patrick's right hand swung in a tight arc, and exploded on the left side of the man's head. The attack was too fast for the man to see, since he was able to negate the inertia of the swing, as if he were empty handed. The man spun in a half circle staggering away. He wanted to knock the gun loose, or at least grab it, but before Patrick could plan out the next step, the knife wielding attacker made his move.
Not having enough time for anything fancy, Patrick pulled the second milk jug in tight, and let the blade plunge right into the label. The milk changed to a tar-like consistency trapping the blade. The weapon was wrenched from the man's grasp with a sharp twist. Patrick put his whole body into the turn to make sure he actually disarmed this one. He smashed the man's nose in with a backwards elbow strike, rocking him back on his heels. Patrick whipped the jug at his stomach, with the same motion and effort as throwing a frisbee. The jug hit with the force of a body blow from a heavyweight boxer, and the attacker dropped to his side gasping for air.
The motion from his peripheral vision reminded Patrick that the first man was still armed. Acting out of instinct, Patrick swept his arm up to pull up as much of the liquid on the floor as he could, as if he were pulling a white sheet to shield himself.
Three loud, sharp firecrackers echoed in the small store and Patrick felt a stinging burn across his right triceps. Did he just get shot? Thankfully his distraction was enough to make himself a harder target, but he had to act quickly and move. The milk had cascaded over him, splashing on the ground to his left. He jumped toward the puddle, turning to land on his back. The impact
sucked the wind out of him, but he had the momentum he needed. The slick white sheet slid across the floor, pulling him along for the ride, just as he heard two more pops and a metallic click.
Patrick's right arm ached, and he felt the burning pain spread. He couldn't see a wound, but after applying some pressure to the back of his upper arm, his hand came away wet with blood. It didn't seem like a lot, and he couldn't feel a bullet hole where his sleeve was torn. It must have just grazed his arm, but the amount pain was misleading. He could have sworn his arm was missing with how much it hurt.
The shooting stopped for a moment, and Patrick heard the sound of something like coins or bottle caps plinking off the floor, as the man cursed to himself. He realized, too late, that the attacker was reloading his .38 caliber revolver. Was that five or six shots? Patrick wasn't knowledgable enough about revolvers to know how many bullets the man's gun actually held.
He leaned a little to the right to try and see down the aisle, when he noticed the store clerk behind the counter peeking his head out. Patrick waved him away, hoping he would be able to lock himself up safely in the back somehow and call for help. The clerk nodded and ducked back down, hopefully making his way to safety.
Hearing the slight scuff and squeak of sneakers, he rolled to his left just as the man peeked down the aisle and fired a shot, shattering a good chunk of the cooler door. Patrick took cover and looked up for something to use as a weapon or distraction. His heart sank when all saw were the chips and dip on one side, and candy on the other. Why did it seem in the movies, they found family-sized cans of chili, or a bottle of lighter fluid and some matches?
That's when he heard, and almost felt, the patter as the man's feet made contact with the puddle of milk left behind. Patrick looked up at the convex mirror mounted on the ceiling and saw that the gunman was creeping up slowly, making his move around the corner. Balling his hands into fists, Patrick could feel the milk almost as if it were in his grasp. He swept both hands to the side, as if he were literally pulling the rug out from under the man, and was rewarded with a shocked gasp, and the slapping thud of a man hitting the floor.
Monsters Heroes Cowboys & Zombies Page 3