The Fire in Chicago

I wrote this for the Tribune Ghost Story contest. It asked for a 700 word story and after finishing mine, the count was about 972. Spending the next 3 days cutting it down was painful as the story lost alot of descriptions, pacing, well, just about everything.
The soulless entry lies below.
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The Fire in Chicago

At 9pm on Tuesday, October 8th 1996, the building on DeKoven Street burst into flames. In the alley that night Johnny was the first to see it from his bike. He was late for his curfew set by his overprotective, retired Chicago firefighter father. He was also the first to see them.
He smelled the smoke first. It was coming from a house two doors back. He rolled there, watching smoke billow out of the windows and flames shimmer behind the back door.
Suddenly the door ignited and instead of spreading outwards, the flames took the form of a man. Johnny wanted to look around and tell someone in the silent, surreal neighborhood but he was transfixed by the unnatural shape on the door. Surging outwards but not in a way fire is supposed to act, it moved forward, walking step by step across the backyard, dancing like fire but retaining its humanoid shape. Seconds later it was followed by another. They looked like people, marching, moving with a purpose. Soon there were more, moving out from the door and the walls, drifting in multiple directions. Alarmingly some of them straight at Johnny.
He turned his bike again towards home, looked over his shoulder, and saw more of the crackling shapes crossing the alley and sliding into adjacent buildings. As he got to the end of the block, he stopped and tried to breathe. Dozens of them were stalking, floating, filling the alley and spreading outwards. By now at least nine houses were alight and he could hear screams from residents as they ran outside, smoke detectors beeping from their open doorways. He pedaled around the corner, where everything on the next street looked normal at first glance but almost instantly he saw a flicker of light heralding their arrival. They drifted into view, moving through trees, cars and anything else in their way, always in a straight line and igniting everything they touched. If these things kept walking, his house and his father were in their path.
DeKoven Street wasn’t a coincidence he knew, since his father had shared the history of the Chicago Fire with him. That was the street where it had started. Exactly one hundred and twenty five years ago it consumed the city and left the same number of bodies in its wake. A chill went down his spine. Were there that many walking the streets this night? He raced the fire shapes home.
Once there, he jumped off his bike, ghost-riding it, and slammed through the door yelling for his dad. He scrambled through the house as his father came out of the kitchen. Johnny stopped in the hallway and tried to explain everything as his father moved to calm him. But as he approached him, a fire ghost walked out of the wall of the bedroom, crossed the hallway between them and went right into the bathroom wall, leaving both walls ablaze in its wake.
His dad grabbed an extinguisher to spray the walls, mumbling about some illusion of the fire. Johnny said that he saw it too and there were more. His father called 911 then led Johnny out into the street.
As his father banged on doors to people’s houses, Johnny set off car alarms to alert them faster. Then, as Johnny watched, his father pushed past a crying woman, and entered a house already engulfed in flames. Johnny tried to follow but someone in the crowd held him back. In a hush the crowd waited until triumphantly, his father stumbled out carrying a child wrapped in wet blankets. Someone took the child while another caught his father as he fell. Johnny looked on tearfully as his father succumbed to smoke inhalation. He died with a smile on his lips, proud of his son and the good he’d done that night.
The fire ghosts walked four miles on that horrific anniversary before extinguishing themselves. The same distance that the Chicago Fire burned through the Windy City.

Years later, John graduated and walked out of the Chicago Fire Academy. Hearing sirens blocks away, he hoped the next fire he saw would be ghost free.
Except maybe for his father. Watching over him.

Dastard and the Tryouts

My friend Jon gave me the idea to give him a sidekick and reminded me about our friend Darin who had a very odd nickname. Never one to turn away a good idea, I wrote the following.

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Dastard walked across the front of the men standing at attention. They all looked mean and nasty and he was very pleased with himself over this crop. Maybe word was finally getting around that he was the man to work for, the man to get the job done and make them all rich.
“I am looking for some help. I am a demanding boss and am perfect in every way, so I seek perfection from my workers as well.” He measured up the men one at a time and looked over his clipboard.
“Tiger Styles? Is that your real name?” he asked the first one. The lean, cut muscles on the dangerous man rippled as he answered, “Uh, no. They call me that because of my fighting style.”
Dastard looked down the list. “Slugger Louis, Gator Jones. Dickhead. Man Mountain. I guess none of these are your real names?” he said apprehensively. “Pity,” he thought. Those names sounded cool. The giants looked around and smiled. A chorus of no’s and chuckles followed, but after a glare from Dastard they all quieted down. They actually looked a bit scared to him. “Perfect,” he thought.
“Let’s see,” he hummed and tapped the clipboard with a pen, “then there’s Calamity Carl, Moose, Phat Joe, and is this right? Which one of you is Dan Ger?” he looked down the row of monstrous men. At the end of the line, a scrawny arm went up. “Here um, sir,” the guy said in a wavering voice.

Dastard stomped down the row and stopped in front of the unassuming man. He took a deep breath and looked him over from bald head to scruffy combat boots. “This guy is a mess,” Dastard thought. He had a strange, twisted beard that dropped from his pointy chin, beady little eyes and a slanted nervous smile on his face. His clothes were old and dirty and hung loose on his wiry frame.
“Listen Dan,” he started but was cut off. “It’s Dan Ger sir, like danger, get it?” and he stuck out his hand to attempt a handshake, but when Dastard looked down he saw the most hideously sweaty palms he had ever seen. They were actually dripping on the floor! And he had just mopped before the guys arrived.
“Listen Dan,” he tried again, “I might have something for you some other time.” He put his arm around him and ushered him to the door, grabbing the mop on the way. “Why don’t you wait out here and my receptionist will get all your info. “
“Yeah, but,” Dan stuttered as he was shuffled out the door.
Dastard handed him the mop, “Thanks for coming,” he said as he gave him a final nudge and closed the door.

“OK boys, I think I’ve seen enough.” He clapped his gloved hands and rubbed them together then walked back around to the front of them. “I’m not one to jump the gun, but I gotta say you guys are in! Welcome to Dastard’s gang,” he beamed and put his fists on his hips, knowing the effect of his extra long cape resettling around him would give them a dramatic shot.

The entire group of men looked at each other, then as one, started laughing. “What?” Man Mountain said, “this is ridiculous.” Dastard blinked quickly, several times. “I thought this was a tryout for Dr. Robot’s Menace Squad,” Gator Jones said in between snorts of derision.
“My agent told me it was for a bank job for Evil-O,” Moose giggled.
“Wait..” Dastard mumbled as he dropped his arms to his side when the men started walking towards the door.
“But…but..” was all the saddened Dastard could say as they reached the door. “Fo real, yo,” Phat Joe called back, “we out. Peace!” More laughter turned to shouts and guffaws as they reached the door.
Dastard raised his arms and let loose, with both gloves, a massive array or lightning that struck the group and seized their bodies before going out. Most of the men were scattered, sent flying by the electrical charge. A couple, like Calamity Carl, dropped to the floor in convulsions. Maddened and haunted by echoes of laughter in his head, Dastard unleashed another barrage, ignoring the very real threat that the gloves could not take much of this and would most likely malfunction and hurt him as well.
More than one of the un-hired gang made quite a mess as their bodies ruptured under the assault. Dastard was very close to losing complete control and would have surely suffered his own wounds to the dangerous gloves if they hadn’t suddenly sparked, snapped and lost power. He thought he saw one of the dead men still moving and he attempted to fire the lightning gloves again, but they just popped and bits of smoke curled out of them.

He dragged in a deep breath and blew it out slowly as his therapist told him to do. He dropped his arms to his side, hung his head low and walked to the doorway, stepping over what he thought was Slugger Lois or maybe Dickhead. He opened the scorched door and called out for his receptionist, “Megan?”
“Yes sir?” she replied from down the hall.
Can you send Mr. Dan Ger back in. He got the job,” he then sighed and closed the door. Before it got halfway, he reopened it. “And Megan, make sure he brings the mop.”

Dastard and the Note

Here's another short bit of that bastard, Dastard.
I have to find a way to tie these together or they will just get repetative.

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The bank teller took the note and her smile faded. She looked up at the man then back down at the note. She looked up again and Dastard fought the urge to scratch his nose under his helmet. The teller turned to her right and whispered to the other one. A guy in his early twenties wearing a tie that he never undid, just loosened and retightened the next day.
The guy looked at the note then looked up at Dastard. Then looked at the note again. The guy got up and said, “Excuse me,” and moved to talk to the bank manager. The girl pasted on a fake smile and shrugged like if the task was out of her realm of expertise. The manager took the note from the teller and looked at it. Then he looked up at Dastard, then down again at the note.
“I think that no-tie knotting teller just smirked at me!” he thought as the bank teller stood up and moved towards him. “Oh, he’ll show me the proper respect!” he thought. “All of them will. My mind is far superior to theirs and they will know it, even if it is the last thing they learn!”
The manager came up to the counter and walked around to the front of it to stand before Dastard, the tie-handicapped guy right next to him.
“Sir,” he started as Dastard couldn’t help but smile under his golden mask and think of what he would do with all that money. Maybe a Dastard-cycle? Or a helicopter? Probably find a better apartment too. Oh, these simpletons don’t know who they are dealing with! I am so smart, they are but insects to me!
“Sir,” the clearly uneducated manager continued, “what exactly is a stink up?”
Dastard’s emotions ran from shock to embarrassment and then to disgust. With himself. The tie guy smirked again and his emotion went to anger. There it was. His old friend.
He slowly reached up and yanked the note out of the manager’s hand.
He then socked the tie-idiot in the mouth and ran for the door, his golden metal boots blending into the sound of sirens outside.

The Other 45 Ways to Leave Your Lover Not Mentioned in the Song

The other 45 ways to leave your lover not mentioned in the song

Board a midnight train, Blaine
Book a new flight, Dwight
Change all the locks, Scott
Join the other team, Gene
Run over her cat, Matt
Up and be gone, John
Leap on a bomb, Tom
Jump on your bike, Mike
Tell her to go blow, Joe
Tell her to scram, Sam
No need to be mean, Dean
Exit stage left, Jeff
Go out on a limb, Jim
Change your job, Bob
Head on down the hill, Phil
Take the blue pill, Bill
Friends you can be still, Will
No longer your pal, Al
Hit the bricks, Chris
Be a man, Dan
Don’t go down the aisle, Lyle
Tell her she’s fat, Pat
Get up and leave, Steve
You stand up tall, Paul
Rent a new pad, Brad
Shake a leg, Greg
Run to the park, Mark
Be a bit discrete, Pete
You’ll know when, Ben
Be tough and brave, Dave
With a goodbye hug, Doug
Be gone before dawn, Sean
Crush her house in a tank, Frank
Fake it in bed, Fred
Let your plans unfurl, Earl
Get out of Dodge, Todd
Just don’t look back, Zack
Treat her like dirt, Kurt
You need your space, Ace
Drop her off at the zoo, Lou
Don’t feel too bad, Tad
You gotta scratch that itch, Rich
Say it’s you or him, Tim
Don’t plead or beg, Craig
Make your lies stick, Nick

The Last Joyride

Just a simple idea I had. I tried to do it in under 100 words but I fell WAY short. Or is it long?

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“I never should have stolen that damn car,” Richie thought, as his lungs filled with blood and his sight blurred. The cries of the women he tried to save were little comfort as the gang moved closer. They swore at him in broken English and laughed at how they thought it was really him, come to punish them. Then they took turns deciding what they would do to him next, this crazy fool who pulled up in the car and tried to stop their fun for the night. Richie tried to blink away the sweat over his brow and stare into the looming shadows of Death. He may have led a horrible life but his last act surprised him. Maybe it was the way people looked at him as he drove down the streets and alleys of the city. Maybe part of him wanted to know the way a righteous man felt, even if it was only a trick. Just for once to do something good and right. The darkness coalesced around him and the laughter trailed off. “This is it,” he thought as the shadow became the shape of a bat when it fell around him, “how ironic.”

The gang around him erupted in yells of pain and panic. Richie tried to focus his eyes and force breath into his clogged lungs. He was just able to make out the man standing over him, defending him, protecting him, when the man in the dark cape and the pointed ears bent down and whispered to him. “It’s okay now, you did good son. Rest” Richie smiled and no longer felt afraid of the dark, but welcomed its embrace. It was the only time he ever felt safe in the city of his birth and death; Gotham.

the 1920's

This was an exercise I did to compete with a kid at works' homework. He was told to write a 2 page story using all the key phrases about the 1920's that he was learning about in History class.
Mine came out to 3 pages. Not a great story, it lacks any real detail or historical truth that I know of, but I like the wrap up at the end.

They say to always be writing. And this let me write something I ordinarily would never have tackled.

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“Grampa! Grampa! Tell us about the time you punched out Al Capone!” “No, tell us how you saved the Great Bambino’s life!” “How about when you were a spy, Grampa!”
“Ok, ok, settle down kids and get under the covers,” he said as he lowered himself into the rocking chair in between the beds. His eyes sort of glazed over as he drifted off into his memories. “I was waiting at the new airport downtown. You see, I was on a top secret mission,” he said, slyly winking to the kids. “Some very important people were coming into town to go to a ballgame and I had to pick them up and get them there. The problem was they were very late and when they finally arrived, one of them told me that if they didn’t get there on time, they’d be killed!” He overemphasized the last word and one of the kids let out a squeal of pretend fear.
“So we raced down the expressway in my new car. The car industry had become so good by then that the cars were sturdy enough to probably drive all the way across country on the new highways that were starting to cover the nation. Man that car was swell! I remember how lucky I was to get it even with the easier credit the banks were letting people get away with.” He paused and whistled slightly. “I guess things would have been different if they’d realized how dependent we’d eventually all become on credit cards and what not.”
“Grampa, stick to the story,” one child moaned and the others hushed him.
“We got there just in time. I pulled up to the stadium and they told me to go around to the back where the players enter. I was pretty surprised since they didn’t look like big time baseball players to me, just regular Joes. Well one of them was kinda, um, big boned you’d say. One of the men paid me as the other said to the big guy, ‘Hey sign a ball for him Babe’ as he got out. The Babe tossed me a ball and said, ‘You’re a life saver kid,’ and they went inside the stadium.”
“Now the fight, Grampa! The fight,” one of the boys cried, throwing punches in the air at the invisible gangsters hovering over his bed.
“I got paid on a Friday at the production plant and since business was booming, I had enough to take my best girl on a big night on the town. I picked her up in my new car and took her to a talkie. That’s what we called the movies back then since adding sound to the films was practically brand new. Afterwards we stopped for a piece of pie and strolled around downtown. There were no bars to go to like people had done before or do now, since Prohibition and Doris liked to talk about how with her being able to vote now, she’d like to vote out those alcohol banning laws.”
“See, I had a surprise for Doris. We walked down an alley and came to a big metal door. There were no signs anywhere and Doris started to get a little worried. But when I rapped my knuckles on the door, a little secret window opened and someone said, ‘Hey, there’s no one here.’ And I said the secret password, “Flapper” and they opened that big metal door for us and we went inside. Swing music and that new Jazz stuff filled the place. There were people everywhere. Drinking and gambl.., uh playing card games, and dancing. Man, the dancing! Doris and I must have danced for hours. Well until the cops showed up.”
“They raided the speakeasy and everyone was screaming and running, and by the time we got to the exit to get outside, a cop had blocked the doorway. But then the guy next to me, a real tough guy who worked for Al Capone they said, pulled a gun out on the cop who had nothing but a nightstick to defend himself. The mug waved the gun around drunkenly and before he could shoot anybody, I socked him in the eye and he went down like a sack of potatoes.”
The kids all cheered and again imitated their Granddad, throwing little balled up fists into the air.
“So the cop, I guess grateful, waved us past him and we ran out into the street and away from any more trouble.”
The old man groaned slightly as he stood up and moved to the bedroom door. “Did you kiss her goodnight Grampa?” little Jennie asked softly, half asleep already.
“I guess you can ask your Gramma Doris tomorrow morning, honey,” he replied as he said goodnight and clicked off the light.

Survivor: Monstorum Island

I really, really hate reality shows. They are so not real. A true reality show would be to set people up and not let them know they are being filmed. No little confessional booths or anything. Just a bunch of idiots put in a weird situation and left to their own devices.

This short story is my idea of how some dumb 18 year old kids would deal with something way beyond the norm. Like Generation Kill. Only not as good.


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Survivor: Monstorum Island

Day 1
The studio people dropped us off on this supposed “Monster Island”. What a stupid name. They have some wicked big lobsters we’re catching off shore but I wouldn’t call them monsters. We started setting up camp along the beach to make use of the ocean for food and stuff and a little ways away, a small river comes out of the jungle and drops into the bay. So we have an easy to get water too. This seems really cool. Nothing like the other seasons of the show I’ve seen. Yo. Some of that shit looked difficult as hell!
You know what else is weird? There are no camera people with us. They just set up a bunch of cameras around an shit and they just left in the helicopter back to the boat. Hey I just realized. There’s no host here either dude. No one to give us stupid challenges or make us eat weird shit or nothing.
This is definitely paradise!

Day 2
A beautiful day! The sky is blue, the breeze through the island is sweet and you would not believe the chicks they put on the show! Wow dog! Everyone so far seems to get along. This is tight!
My only problem is the jungle is a little loud at night. Must be some boars or something out there making all the grumbling I heard. I wish they’d just shut up or maybe we can kill them and eat them or something.
Today we are going to go base jumping and do some swimming in the bay. Did I mention how hot the girls are?

Day 3
Oh my god! WTF!!! I just I saw a giant turtle come out of the ocean and eat our food. It must have been a hundred feet long! I am not fuckin around! It was huge! This is nuts dog! I didn’t know turtles could get that big! Janie says they can grow pretty big. Something about they never stop growing and they can live to be like two hundred years old. I guess I believe her. She said she saw a show on the Discovery Channel about it, she’s the expert. Course it doesn’t hurt that she is smoking hot too!
By the way, our new camp in the jungle is great! No one feels good sleeping on the beach tonight with the giant turtle. That was crazy.
Anyway, I think at the bonfire we make tonight I will cut back on how much I drink. You know, just in case.

Day 4
We can’t find Janie. Or Derek and Joey. This ain’t cool. I hope they aren’t passed out in the jungle after having a threeway or something. Just my luck bro. The chick I’m workin on is into some other dude. Or dudes. Whatever man.
Well, we were going to see if we could catch some more fish today but all our nets and stuff are either broken or missing. This is bullshit. I wish drunk mother fuckers knew how to act in a social type situation. They make us all look bad.
Man, Kyle is such a klutz! I went to check on him this morning and all I found in his tent was some broken glass from a bottle and a bunch of blood. He musta got drunk last night and cut his hand on his bottle and wandered out looking for a bandage. What an pussy!
Oh yeah! I got woken up last night because a tree fell in the jungle. I guess if it falls and no one is there to hear it, it still makes noise cuz I heard it man! Deb and Brittney went to go check it out. It must have been awesome cuz they ain’t back yet. I was gonna go but I think I drank too much and my head is spinning dog!

Day 5
Dude! We found Deb and Brittney. I think they’re dead! Their heads were off and everything. And Amber said she saw Kyle laying out in the jungle. Well, not Kyle but his arm. She said it was definitely him cuz he was wearing the friendship bracelet she gave him after he went down on her after dinner the other day. This is whack yo.
We all heard a loud roar from the jungle too. It was like a lion or something. This is messed up son! Get me the hell out of here!

Day 6
Whatever that thing was in the jungle yesterday, came out last night and stomped through our camp. Zoey and Amber got stepped on, that was gross yo! And I think it only ate half of Miguel cuz there were parts of him EVERYWHERE when I woke up this morning. That giant lizard fucker tore this place up dog! It probably would have got me too bro if that badass gorilla hadn’t come out of the trees and tackled it. They rolled around and that big ass gorilla started ground’n and pound’n his lizard ass!
The rest of the guys took off when they saw that shit but it was kinda cool so I stuck around and watched it. Thatt monkey mother fucker started choking that lizard dude and his eyes were buggin out! It was tight yo. Then I heard everybody scream from the jungle and I saw some trees fallin down around them. Whatever was in there, I was glad I was out here watchin that brawl for damn sure.

Day 7
I think I learned alot about myself on this show. I learned that life is too fuckin short and if there’s a chick you’re into, you should bust a move before you lose her. Either to some other dude or a giant monster or some shit.
I think I’m the only one left since no one came out of the jungle last night or today. So I’m gonna try and find that turtle and see if I can get a ride out to the boat. Later dudes. PEACE!

Dastard and the Shakedown

I don't know where this goes. Just something really funny about it to me. A dick-ish superhero that no one knows is a dick.


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Praetorian Aegis grabbed Dastard by the shirt at his neck and brought him in close.
“How much money you got on you?” he whispered.
“Wh-what?” Dastard choked out.
“C’mon ya dick, fork it over,” the hero said more emphatically. “There’s not much time.”
“Wh-what?” repeated Dastard, completely taken aback.
Then there was the pounding of feet up the castle steps. Praetorian pulled Dastard’s wallet out and just as Captain Wow and the rest came into view, he punched Dastard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Before he could catch his breath Aegis hit him again, this time across the jaw, snapping his head to the side and crossing his eyes.
“I got him, don’t worry. Another evil-doer brought to justice,” he said as Dastard felt himself slip into an inky haze.
“Damn you.. Praetorian…..” he gurgled and passed out.

Dastard and the Briefcase

I have very little knowledge of the way quotation marks work in a sentence. I always pick up a book I am reading and rifle through it to find how it's done and if I can't find an example I make it up. By now I should give up and just assume that a copy editor will one day fix it all but I am way too anal to just let it go.

Dastard's character is a reflection of being able to do what I or the reader would want to do in a given circumstance but can't because we have social decorum to worry about. I am not saying we all want to be murderers or thieves, but when a waiter, for example, says or does something you don't like and you want to just slug him, you hold back. Dastard won't. He might be looked at as a sociopath, my brother's favorite subject, but I kinda think of him as a pragmatist. Sort of like a John Wayne character who won't take no guff. You say the wrong thing or look at him wrong and pow! Of course he is a villain and he will end up taking plenty of guff in his problematic career, but you get the gist.

Like all my stories of Dastard, I don't really know where they tie in or fit in his continuity, I just thought of a funny sketch-like bit and fleshed it out. One day I will actually plot out the whole story and it will hopefully, make sense to the reader.


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The three thugs piled into the car; at least one of them grunting as if just walking there and getting in was enough physical exertion for the day.
“So you guys dropped off the briefcase and took the one with the money? Everything went ok?” Dastard asked while smoothing his cape out over his knees with his gloves as he often did when he was anxious.
“Yeah Boss,” the skinny one named Maury or Maurice said.
“Good because we don’t want to be anywhere near the…” started Dastard before being cut off by the big heavy set thug named Apples. “Uh, Boss… I’m not sure what briefcase I grabbed.”
“What? “ he stammered “There’s a bo..” cut off again, this time by the “brains” of the group Danny Figs. “Don’t worry Boss, I took care of it. I switched the cases for him.” Figs looked pleased with himself. Not a normal sight around these guys.
“Gah! Really? That’s good. “ Dastard looked at his watch. “I was gonna say there isn’t a lot of, what, ten seconds ‘til that briefcase explo..”
“Uh…Boss… I hear ticking coming from our case of money,” Apples said quietly.
“I was gonna say I switched it boss. I knew dese guys might mess it up,” Maury or Maurice said.
“Sonofa…” was all Dastard could get out before the case exploded and with a shriek of metal the car pitched up in the air, crashing back down with flames bellowing out all the windows.
Dastard sat there, his car a smoking ruin, small burning bits of metal, plastic and bloody parts strewn around it.
Dastard pulled himself wearily out of the wreck as a couple kids about seven years old rode by on their bikes. One of them threw something at him; most likely a small rock or some used chewing gum while the others laughed.
Dastard shook his head and sighed. Standing up slowly, he then kicked the brat off his bike. The chewing gum which was stuck briefly to his boot then became pasted to the boy’s t-shirt. He then mounted the bike and awkwardly rode away making for his hideout, the sounds of a crying child drowned out by the squealing of one of the bike’s wheels.

Dastard and the Jewelry Store

This is the story I am working on about a villain who is trying to work his way up to true supervillainy all the while dealing with bumbling and inept underlings, arrogant interupting minor league superheroes and his own ineptness and despicable plans gone awry.

I kind of wanted it to be told from the point of view of the character but I thought it would change the story too much. I mean if he fails, he would just lie and tell you it went swimingly. Another option is to have it told in the 3rd person, and interlace it with interviews with the character to get his point of view without it affecting the overall story. I was gonna have it told as if a person were watching the events, (maybe the interviewer) and reporting it along with the interviews but I don't think Dastard would condone someone following him around reporting his mistakes.

Anyway, more on our hero, I mean villain later. This is a bit of the story where he is in the process of robbing a jewelry store or something and how it goes wrong.

Let me know what you think.

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Dastard clicked his heels together and activated the propulsion units in his boots. The jets making him levitate a mere eight inches off the ground, he tried to steady himself so he wouldn’t look foolish in front of the store patrons. After a couple seconds he felt confident enough to speak.
“Yes, it is I, the diabolical Dastard! Here to relieve you of your excessive wealth” he exclaimed regally, hoisting the canvas bag up for them all to see. “Just put your valuables in the bag and no one will get hurt.”
He shifted his weight carefully positioning the jets so that he could maneuver forward slightly. Before he got to the first unnerved person his boots let out a spark and slightly surged. Looking around and down nervously he spoke his next words carefully, trying to sound evil. “Nice and slow. No one. Will. Get hurt,” he said then thought to himself, least of all me.
He drifted toward his first victim and attempting to glide past him so as to make it around the room without crashing into anyone, he made a slight adjustment to his flight path.
“Take it easy,” he said obviously more to himself than his prey.
Then there was a loud pop and a snap and the boot jets launched madly, taking him with them. He let out a yelp that he thought no one heard which then directly became a child-like scream which no doubt, was heard by every superhero within ten miles. The jets could not be controlled even if Dastard was able to hold back his terror and find a way to make them. He zipped up, corkscrewing and flailing, his cape whipped up to cover his mask, one would almost say thankfully as he careened off a pillar and spiraled up and around about the cathedral ceiling.
The onlookers once too scared to move now held their positions not out of fear but bewilderment. One person fought his way past the moment to hold up his phone and click off a picture. Before any serious harm could befall Dastard, the boots sputtered and gave out in midair. The villain dropped immediately, bellyflopping solidly onto a marble counter belaying that bit about serious harm.
The crowd still mesmerized, leaned forward waiting to see what would happen next as if they paid good money to see a show and demanded results. Dastard slowly lifted an arm and dragged his cape off of his head. Groaning, he tried to lift himself up with a pushup but his arms, all rubbery-like, gave out and he collapsed back down. The result of which was he instantly threw up, vomit shooting out of the slits in his mask. A few people in the crowd gasped, a couple people squealed, one laughed and they all scattered. Chaos reigned as they ran out of the shop, pushing each other out of their way, not so much from the botched robbery but from the hideous mess that fell off the marble counter and dripped split pea soup-like onto the polished floor.
“Thank you everyone. Remember to tell all about the dark power of Dastard,” he mumbled and then promptly and mercifully, lost consciousness.