Risking maybe too much, I slide down in my seat and change myself right there too. Note to self: put a reminder label on Starbuck's dash to reposition seat before engaging light. I may have pushed the seat slightly off it's tracks by becoming bigger in a confined space.
No time to worry about that, I put on one of the new polo shirts and a pair of slacks, and for the first time, he is wearing shoes. It will feel odd to walk not bare foot. And, thinking too much again, I am suddenly concerned about my ability to fly with shoes on. Will I be able to talk to the molecules? I remind myself to remind myself to try that tonight, then I walk across the street and back into the mall. My feet report contact with molecules, though I can't tell if they are shoe molecules or useful molecules or both.
I head first to the sporting goods store and buy a portable GPS. The 18 year old clerk knows way too much about this stuff, but gets me a good deal on a camping grade unit that, hopefully, won't short out the first time I fly into a cloud. Then it's off to the bookstore to buy a detailed paper map book of LA county. Both purchases in cash, both with me wearing his face. Untraceable. Then my brain has another thought. Are my fingerprints the same? Also something that needs to be checked.
I walk to the second floor, and quietly enter Nerd Central, also known as Radio Shack. An even nerdier 18 year old than the guy with the GPS counter helps me out here, and I leave with a nice portable police scanner, and a cel phone that works fine, but does not require me to give my name to the phone company. It only has 100 minutes, but the nerd assures me I can add time without identification.
My bank balance is not what it should be any more. Shopping for two is hard on the budget. As I'm walking back across Main I get a text from Jen, who once again is going to be working late. She says she'll meet me Wednesday night at dispatch when I get home. I give her the usual ok, and I love you response.
Back in my Starbuck, I do the quick change back into me and my clothes, grab the GPS and its operating manual, then wander over to the Starbuck's and have a giant sized iced tea while playing with my new toy. I leave about three, wanting to avoid the rush hour traffic on the 405 home.
It's planning time. Start small, Captain Amos said, any decent superhero would have to start small and build up to the big time. I'm going to look for a meth lab, or cache of real drugs, or even just a minor drug lord, see if I can't turn them over to the police without getting them killed or me caught.
For the past two months when I read my morning Times I have copied down the address of every drug bust significant enough to make the paper. Now I have that notebook, my new LA map book, and my new GPS spread out on the kitchen table, and I'm marking the bust locations on the map with a red felt tip. Before too long, three pages of the book are seriously red, the rest either just a few spots, or none at all. Doesn't tell me where the drugs are now, just where they've been, but I'm counting on my fog-induced powers to give me clarity once I'm there.
The attire question is still a question. Naked would be the best for stealthy approach, but I don't need drug dealers (and potential hidden cameras) oogling the salami. The leather gear is untested, but more superheroey. I make a decision. Tonight I will get all leathery, and give the new stuff a test flight. Gives me a chance as well to find out if I can duplicate last night's efforts and be as productive with my big rocks too.
I am not, however, heading for Santa Monica. Anaheim just became my only stop until I can find another primary. The issue of fake ID is also on my list. Channel 2 says that Columbia is the state of the art when it comes to forgery. I probably need to pay them a visit. Those three years of college Spanish might be about to pay dividends other than improving my odds with women of the Latina persuasion.
It's already 10:30, so I dig into the closet and stuff the leather in a plain black duffel bag I bought for just this purpose. It's got enough room for a spare set of my clothes, and side pockets to put wet underwear or whatever. I couldn't figure out what whatever was when I bought it, but now I know it's a GPS, a police scanner, a cel phone and whatever. Whatever.
I leave the apartment and get to Starbuck, on the lookout for elderly nosy neighbors the whole way. I spot none. Past their bed time, or should be, even though Mrs. Barret was out last night. She's a widow, so maybe she was getting back from a booty call at some assisted living center. OK, so I'm mean. Kill me. Oh yeah, you can't. You just have to wait 1,001 days like everyone else.
Anaheim is 20 minutes away tonight, light traffic for LA. I park in my usual spot, and realize that I have a problem. I've been going in my too large clothes and just holding my pants up long enough to get to and from the alley. Now I need to change clothes, get my old ones back in the car, get my new ones back into the car, get my old ones out of the car. The idea was to be him in the alley and me everywhere else, but I don't see how I can do that.
So I go into the alley as me, no plan at the ready, put the bag on to of one of the disgusting dumpsters, strip to my underwear, change into him, put his clothes on, put mine back into the bag. I clip the GPS to my waist. Roof. Roof looks good. Now comes test two. I feel for molecules with my feet, firmly encased in socks and boots. They are there. I push gently. I go up, the boots go down. My socks stay on.
I put the bag on the roof, which looks as though it has not been visited by a human being in a long time, but given the quantity of bird shit, will force me to clean the bag when I get home. If I can even stand to have it in the car that long. Then I go back down and try again. Boots go on, molecules get tickled, Simon flies away (is that his name?). Boots are flying, just not on my feet, and following the rules of Isaac Newton, they are going in an equal and opposite direction.
Socks aren't solid, I can feel the wind whispering through them as I float in the night sky. The boots are apparently too solid to wear. So back down, grab them and put them in the bag before flying off toward downtown.
It takes me a while to get the special feeling back. The light is nowhere to be found. I grab the molecules and slow myself, imitating my behavior from last night. Close my eyes, breathe, be patient. The light eventually pops out, and once again I know I can do it. Eyes open this time, I am fearless, six inches off the sides of buildings I was nearly bringing down a couple days ago. I'm thinking, the light is steering. It's a partnership of sorts.
I land on top of the B of A building, and grab my GPS. It appears to be functioning. I set the bank building as a destination, so it will remember the coordinates in case I'm ever lost. The I'm being watched feeling is suddenly there in my head. Maybe Fog Dude doesn't know what a GPS is.
Then I molecule myself skyward, and set course for the rock throwing area. I don't take a straight line there for the first time ever on purpose. I dodge, roll, loop, flip, flop, sail, soar, and swerve. I have the time of my life. Free. Wind in my face, socks on my feet.
I don't think I'm any better at the rock toss than I used to be, but it doesn't matter. I don't stay long before heading down the rail road tracks, pausing at Magic Mountain to enter its coordinates into the GPS, and then turning and playing through the mountains and canyons. I try something new tonight, staying north and hitting the ocean well out into the farm lands, then turning and burning barely above the Pacific all the way home.
Disneyland is quiet beneath me, only a few folks out cleaning, when I return. My bag is undisturbed, and actually not too poopy. I change back into me, and then into my clothes, before heading for Starbuck and home. I have to be at the airport and headed to Kona in a few hours, and I need to come up with a new training regime for the islands that will not get me on video.
Boring flight to paradise, especially for a man crossing the 1,000 days to live mark. Miss Mankat was out, so none of the "usual witty repartee," then five hours of Matt talking about what he was planning to do to her now that she had agreed to have dinner with him.
All seven of us, the five flight attendants, Matt, and I, go snorkeling, which, besides being relaxing, gives me an idea for my overnight adventures. After, w
e shower, change (clothes not faces), eat shrimp by the ocean and wander together around Kona town.
They all go to bed, and I become him. Put on the swim trunks, but not the t shirt, slink out of my room, across the hotel lobby, down to the water's edge and slide in. Lots of molecules by my feet, I push as gently as I can. It works. I am a torpedo, a dolphin, a tuna. Like them, my species is certainly endangered.
I cruise out from the coast, which drops off quickly on the big island. It's dark down there, but I go anyway. I don't stay long. No infrared vision, or super special powers that let me see shit down here. It's just dark. So back up nearer to the surface, which is still pretty dark. It's night, and under water, and I still thought I was going to be able to see. World's stupidest superhero, film at 11.
Idiocy confirmed, I abandon all thought and head north by north west (roughly toward Japan), but at a nice slow submarine like speed. Given my history with high speed travel, I don't want to leave any dead whales or dolphins in my path. Pele hates me, I don't need to get Kanaloa, the ocean god, pissed too.
I cruise for what seems like an hour, but I can't be sure because at least I was smart enough not to wear my watch underwater. I do not need air, so no idea how long I can hold my breath, but hours certainly.
Grab a toeful of molecules, and I shove really hard, breaking the water's surface maybe 10 miles off the Kohala coast. Leveling off at 20 feet above sea level, I rocket up to near the speed of sound. No speedometer, but I have learned my lesson and slow as soon as I feel the air pressure change as I near that barrier.
I make a big loop around Molokai and the north shore of Oahu before rocketing back to the Big Island. I turn inland, buzz a group of burros, and climb to a couple hundred feet, slowing down to bird speed. Hopefully, I will look avian to the airport radar.
Into town, the view is cool, and I land carefully on the roof of my hotel. Probably another chance I shouldn't have taken, but I'm feeling adventuresome. The light is pleased with me.
I take what I mean to be one last look at the ocean, only there's a heavy duty light down by the shore, about where I went in. A boat is gliding quietly around off shore, using a searchlight on the water surface, and there's a Dodge SUV with a small blue light on its roof parked next to the rocks. On Hawai'i, most of the police drive their own cars, with a little blue light stuck on top when they are on duty.
I have a bad thought. Quickly shifting back to me, I run down to my room, get dressed and play the curious tourist out for a late night - early morning stroll. Two old people are standing there, kind of an odd thing for three in the morning. I wander over to them.
They confirm my fears. The old lady saw a man, about six foot six, black hair, tan swim trunks, go into the water and not come out. Old people are fucking dangerous to others. They aren't going to find me (him), but I don't need a police report with his description (even somewhat in error) out there, and I don't need a newspaper article with it either.
But the alternatives are also bad. If I change into him and show up, I have no ID. A fake name would eventually be found out as a fake name, and then there is a police report. If I give them my name, then his description and my name end up in a police report together. Fuck me. Better the known mystery than opening a door into something I can't be sure about.
I decide to go up stairs and change back into him so I don't have to worry about falling asleep. I hate this, I really hate this.
Four hours later when I check out of the hotel, I ask the desk clerk if they found anything. She makes my day by saying the police concluded that the witness most likely missed the guy coming back out either further up or down the coast, and they hadn't even bothered to send out a description to the hotels to keep a look out. I could have kissed her.
We have a few bumps on the way back, but nothing as bad as I have been through the past few days. Jen gets the biggest hug I can give her when she meets me, and a thorough full body massage when we get back to my place. No visit from the Fog Dude, most likely he's waiting to see what dumbass thing I'll do next. I wonder if he can bail me out of jail?
In the morning, she heads off to work on her own (we drove our own cars back to my place), after we agree that she needs to work late tonight, and I will be tired after my Denver run tomorrow, so a big Saturday night is in order.
Which means that this evening will be the first adventure out for him versus the bad guys. Whatever his name is.
I waste the day. Run a double loop. Go to the driving range. Think about coming back there later as him to see how far he can hit. Lunch at South Coast, and more shopping for XXL clothes. In particular, I buy a cheap pair of shoes in his size. I'm going to punch some holes in the soles as an experiment to see if they will stay on my feet. My eighth grade science teacher would be so proud.
Go home, punch holes in soles, and read newspapers until it's time to sneak out. Starbuck and I head to Anaheim, and park off Katella once more. I do need to find a new alternate spot on my next day off. Grab my bag and head into the alley.
I strip down to my underwear and say the magic word, "dumbass," becoming the mightiest dumbass in the world. Maybe the tallest too. I put on my leather outfit and cheap shoes with the holes in the soles. Grab a few wayward molecules and head for the roof. The shoes are on the ground, bouncing around when I get there. Not a bad idea, but aside from cutting the entire soles off the boots, I think that experiment has come to an end. Socks will not look as cool, but nothing I can do.
Put my bag on the cleanest spot I can find, clip the GPS and untraceable cel phone to my side, and head north. The area I want is above the 105 and east of the airport, so I can find it generally without help. Then I have to trust to karma, or to the spirit of Jack Lord, or to whoever is the god of crime fighters to help me zero in on something good (actually something bad).
It's not entirely obvious how high to fly. Too low, and someone will spot me, too high and I won't see anything useful. It's not as if I don't know how to use my powers. I'm not the clown on the old TV show who lost the instruction manual for his supersuit. I know what I can do, it's just a matter of getting enough practice so I can find the range at which it works.
There's a road out here with lots of sleazy rent by the week for cash hotels that are supposedly a sea of meth labs. The rough plan is to find one, catch the bad guys with the evidence, call the police, tie it up in a nice neat bow, and let justice be done. Without getting caught, filmed, or fucked up in the process.
The find part is apparently even easier than I thought it would be. I head right for one of the properties, colorful well lit sign out front promising low weekly rates, free cable, free wi-fi, and cleanliness. The building itself looks like a strong gust of wind would take it down. Paint older than I am, what was once tan stucco cracked and pealing, no elevator even though it's four stories high, roof mostly old red tile, but patched randomly with black shingles. Obviously cheaper to pay off the inspector than fix it up.
The hotel itself is a rectangle, with each room facing into a central courtyard, concrete with a few open dirt areas that probably held trees in the distant past. Loads of parking on all four sides, lights in the parking lot only in the front, and a single camera over the archway from the front lot into the courtyard. Seems to be there to protect the manager's office, not the residents. Or, just maybe, the residents prefer to be more anonymous than actual cameras would make them.
There is a single door that fascinates me. Third level up, closed, no lights on, can't make out the number from here, but directly across from the archway. In other words, way in the back, rear window facing only parking for this complex and another complex well to the south. I know evil is afoot in that room. The question is only what kind of evil, and how best to end it.
I think about landing and sitting on the roof, but even here that might be suspicious (and the roof might not hold my weight), so I just talk a few molecules into letting me stand on them, a couple hundred feet up. Nice and dark, provided a police helicopter doe
sn't wander by. Somehow, though, I'm betting the police come here only when absolutely necessary.
Two hours later, bored out of my frakking mind, a beat up 1980s vintage blue and rust colored pickup truck enters the parking lot. Lots of cars have come and gone, but I know this is the one. I like these feelings. I am going to try them out on the lottery tomorrow. Two redneck losers exit the vehicle. Male. One five three, one six three. Probably 250 pounds, each. If anything, the five footer outweighs the six footer. Sandy brown pony tail on shortie, shaved on the other. The tall one leans over the bed and lifts two over-stuffed plastic shopping bags out of the back.
Definitely need to drain my bank account more this weekend. I could have brought my binoculars, nice 10 power jobs I use to watch the cheerleaders at Chargers games, but what I really need is a camera. High power, digital, works well in the dark.
Sure enough the two of them wander all the way to the back of the courtyard, slowly climb the stairs, wait at the top while Mr. I'm Too Fat to Have Rented a Third Floor Walk Up catches his breath, and then let themselves in. Door closes, light goes on, I can't see shit of what is going on inside.
Fog Bastards 1 Intention Page 8