Two Percent Power: Delivering Justice

by Brian Manning

  “Is this milk?” Denim croaked through his reddened and swollen features.

  “Two percent. It was on sale this week.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  Patrick stretched out on the couch, one foot draped over the back, and the other resting on the floor. His head was propped up by one arm, folded underneath like a pillow. His other hand pinned the remote to his chest, so that it wouldn’t flee, escaping between the cushions. The couch was beyond worn out. Its cushions and springs lost the ability to support Patrick’s weight long ago. Instead, he was suspended by the remaining fabric and flattened foam, stretched out like a pale imitation of a hammock. The darkened yellow stuffing peeked out from behind holes held together by vertical strands of the plaid seat cover, like a prisoner pressed up against the bars of his cell, trying to get a good look at the unlucky shmuck in the next cell over.

  The living room, much like Patrick’s bedroom, was a temple to comics and science fiction movies. Long, white cardboard boxes were stacked in a corner. A reference library containing the hundreds of comic books that didn’t fit in Patrick’s overstuffed closet. All bagged, some boarded. Like those in his bedroom, these were copies for reading, not collecting. This way, they served a purpose. Entertainment, education, and tips for creative ways to push super abilities to the limit. Not some failed dream to strike it rich or pay off a student loan.

  Patrick heard the tell-tale knocking on his apartment door: tap - tap - tap tap tap - tap tap tap—tap. The same rhythmic rapping, mimicking a disco beat he didn’t recognize, signaled Trevor’s arrival. Patrick got up off the couch just far enough to turn the knob with his fingertips and 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, SpongeBob.”

  “Still not funny,” Trevor said. “No irritable bowel tonight?”

  “Still not funny,” Patrick said. “Do you really have to ask me that every time you see me?”

  “It’s been a while. I haven’t seen you in a week. Figured you were too busy fighting crime.”

  “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 in public?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Trevor picked up one of the short military style boots sitting next to the cluttered coffee table. “How’s your new outfit?”

  “The one I’m designing now? I haven’t finished the sketches.”

  “No, the one you’re currently using.”

  “I like how the jacket feels. It’s light enough, but still plenty tough. The pants I’m not too crazy about. Here, check this out.” Patrick plucked a small pamphlet off the edge of the table and tossed it across the room.

  Trevor fumbled it, before pinning it against his thigh. He took a second scanning the trifold sales sheet. “Soldier pants?”

  “Yeah, military battle dress uniform pants. They’ve got pouches and pockets for days. Plus the knee protection is attached right on to the pants, so I won’t need to tug at them all the time like I do with those.” Patrick pointed to a pair of dark unidentifiable objects sitting on the floor against a wall.

  “Why don’t you try this jacket too?” Trevor held his finger under a picture of the military style top that matched the pants Patrick had already circled.

  “I like the motorcycle jacket. Besides, it took a really long time to modify it for storing all of the pouches and tubing.”

  “You need some kind of tinkerer to build new gadgets and outfits for you.” Trevor was examining one of the bulky wrist cuffs attached to tubing running up the sleeves of dark gray and blue motorcycle jacket. “So, where are you going to put your logo?”

  “What logo?”

  “You know. Your insignia. To tell people who you are. You don’t have a name or logo yet?”

  Patrick figured he wouldn’t be able to finish watching the show he recorded to his DVR, so he just turned the TV off and sat up on the couch.

  “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 still don’t have a name, or an identity. I still have to come up with one. It’s a lot harder than I expected.”

  Trevor’s eyes lit up. This was one of his favorite topics of discussion. He cleared his throat, unrolled an imaginary scroll, and adjusted his non-existent reading glasses.

  “I got some new ones. 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? Trevor rattled off about a dozen more names, and even though none of them registered, Patrick was certain they were all just as 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 terrible name.”

  “So you haven’t been drinking milk to use your powers?” Trevor asked, changing the subject.

  Finally a topic that Patrick 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 getting the hang of this stuff.”

  “You mean you can fly now?”

  Patrick stared at Trevor with genuine confusion. His mouth hung open, head tilted a touch to the left, while he did his best to comprehend how that would apply. Noticing the 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.

  Patrick laughed. He did seem somewhat defensive the past few weeks, especially for someone with his odd ability. Although he acted annoyed at the discussions with his friend, they were still rather enjoyable. It’s not like he had anyone else to talk to, and Trevor was there when the power first manifested in their high school years. Patrick 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 every day. 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 twisted to show his disgust. “The stuff’s not 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 warm like if you heated it up. Also, it’s got a funny flavor. It tastes like bur
nt food. It’s got kind of charcoal aftertaste to it.”

  “Ugh.” Trevor sneered.

  “Not to mention, I still get the same stomach problems, so I’m guessing the lactose or whatever, is still in there.”

  Trevor picked up one of the graphic novels on Patrick’s coffee table, flipping through the pages as he continued the conversation.

  “What kind of tricks are you picking up with your new-found control?”

  “I’ve got better awareness of the liquid as a whole. I can feel it, as I’m manipulating it. I can hold shapes better, too.” 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.”

  “Can you make milk doppelgängers?”

  “Like sentient copies of myself, made out of milk?”

  “Yeah, how awesome would that be?”

  “No, I would still have to concen—”

  “Ooh, can you make a milk gun that shoots milk bullets?”

  Patrick knew not to answer the question. After years of friendship, he could read the signals indicating that Trevor was about to start rapid firing ridiculous questions.

  “If you made a milk katana, how sharp would the edge be? Can you make brass knuckles out of milk? Two words; milk wings.”

  After a few more crazy ideas, Patrick cut him off, “Probably no to all of those.”

  “Wait right here.” Trevor said. He put the book down and walked into the kitchen with a smirk.

  Patrick watched him leave, 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 plucking gesture with his hand, pulling some of the milk out of the glass. He brought it over, forming a perfect marble, resting in his palm. Grabbing it with one hand, Patrick dug into his pocket with the other, 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 asked.

  “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 left in the glass, 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.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  Taking the past few days to improve his skills, Patrick spent as much time as he could honing his control over White Justice. That was such an awful name, but the soft chuckle escaped his lips nonetheless. He knew terrible names had a way of sticking when he and Trevor joked around too much. Still, he didn't have an actual identity to spit at the bad guys, since he hadn't been out prowling the streets for almost a week. Patrick just used his power to help out in some small way here and there, no longer looking for any notoriety. He wasn't a brand building guru, nor did he 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 have to put some thought into it. But for now, he was almost out of milk and needed to make a quick stop at the corner store after his latest 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. One last shiver escaped, as he rubbed his hands together while walking to the cooler. Probably should have brought gloves he thought, as he opened the glass door to grab some milk.

  His mind wandered while staring 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, trying to make up his mind, while stretching his hips and knees. 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.

  Patrick grabbed the two jugs and 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.” The voice redirected Patrick’s focus toward the commotion.

  He looked up at the man addressing him. This was a man with the perfect look to be a career criminal. The unremarkable appearance of an everyman. Difficult to describe, because his features were so plain. Medium build, fair skin, short brown hair, and brown eyes, with an impatient look. The everyman was talking over his right shoulder while pointing a pistol at the frightened clerk behind the counter. Patrick brought both hands up, each of his thumbs hooked into the handle of a milk jug, while he eyed the second man.

  “Alright, I'm just going to put these down. Nice and slow,” Patrick said.

  The second man did a much better job at snagging attention. A stark contrast to his buddy. Not overly large, but tall and broad enough to stick out in a crowd. He had a thick tuft of red hair covering a pointy chin. A perfect visual handhold for a witness to recall. Even the freckle pattern that ran across the bridge of his nose and across both cheekbones was distinctive enough to plot out from memory. Red was a bundle of nerves, armed with a knife and looking around. Patrick figured this was the man’s first rodeo, which is why he was holding the knife, and not the gun. Both men kept their gaze low, chins tucked against the long scarves around their necks. The man with the knife, Red, went the extra step and had the hood of his sweatshirt 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, attempting 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, Patrick put all of his focus on the milk jug in his right hand. It swung in a tight arc, too fast for the man to see, and exploded on the left side of the everyman's head. The gunman spun in a half circle staggering away. Patrick hoped to knock the gun loose, or at least grab it, but before he could react, Red joined the fight, thrusting with the knife.

  Not having enough time for anything fancy, Patrick pulled the second milk jug in tight against his ribs and let the blade plunge into the label. The milk changed to a thick tar-like viscosity, trapping the blade. With a sharp twist, Patrick put his whole body into the turn, and wrenched the knife out of the attacker’s hand. He smashed Red’s nose with an elbow strike, rocking the robber 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. Red dropped to his side, his mouth opening and closing, a fish out of water gasping for oxygen.

  The everyman stepped back into view. Acting out of instinct, Patrick swept his arm up to pull up as much of the spilled liquid from the floor as he could, hoping to shield himself. A white sheet wavered up into place between the two men.

  Three loud, sharp firecrackers echoed in the small store. A hot knife slice across the back of Patrick’s right arm. Did I just get shot? The distraction made him a harder target, but he had to act fast to take advantage of the cover. Patrick turned away, causing the milk to cascade over him, splashing onto the floor. He jumped toward th
e puddle, turning to land on his back. The impact sucked the wind out of him, but gave him 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 ducked behind the aisle of snacks. His 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 of pain was misleading. He could have sworn his right arm was missing with how much it hurt.

  The shooting stopped, and Patrick heard coins or bottle caps plinking off the floor, as the man cursed to himself. He realized, too late, that the everyman was reloading his .38 caliber revolver. Was that five or six shots? Patrick wasn't knowledgeable enough about guns to know how many bullets the man's revolver even 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 the young man would be able to lock himself up in the back somehow and call for help. The clerk nodded and ducked back down, making his way to safety.

  Hearing the slight scuff and squeak of sneakers, Patrick rolled to his left just as the man peeked down the aisle and fired a shot. Glass peppered him as the cooler door was struck by the bullet and shattered. 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 like in the movies they found family-sized cans of chili, or a bottle of lighter fluid and some matches?

  Patrick froze when he heard the sound of the man’s heavy soled shoes tapping. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. Patrick found that he could feel the patter of the man's feet as they made contact with the puddle of milk left behind. He looked up at the convex mirror mounted on the ceiling and saw that the gunman was creeping up, making his move around the corner. Balling his hands into fists, he could feel the milk in his mental grasp. Patrick swept both hands to the side, pulling the rug out from under the man, and was rewarded with the slapping thud of his foe hitting the floor.