markwildyr.com, Post #69
|Courtesy of cliparts.free.net|
So far, “Marco? Polo!” is getting good hits… some of them from the “unknown region” I mentioned earlier. Really would like to know who that is.
Let’s try a little flash fiction whimsy this time.
CAPTAIN CHICKEN HAWK
The life of a superhero ain’t all it’s cracked up to be! Might not be so bad if I could just yell “Shazam!” or “Cream Cheese” or something, but like that guy in the blue union suit and red briefs, I gotta find a phone booth or some nook or cranny before I go into action. And I don’t like wearing my superhero gear under my street clothes… it itches too much. Superman’s lucky he’s in Gotham City with lots of booths. Albuquerque doesn’t have a single one. All we have are these kiosk things, and there’s precious little privacy there.
Once, as I changed into my uniform, some blue-haired old lady set up such a screech that I had to take off half-dressed. It gets chilly flying around with your fanny hanging out. Tired of losing wallets to thieves while performing heroic deeds, I now hang my street clothes in a tree or from a tall building somewhere. Oh, yeah, and I’m gay. Only superhero who admits to it… but I have my suspicions about Batman and that cute Robin.
Guess I should say something about my superhero name. I've always been drawn to noble birds, you know, eagles and hawks, but I rejected ‘Eagle’ because it calls to mind this big, bald-headed bird. Definitely uncool. Since there’s already a guy calling himself Hawk, I settled on “Falcon” and added the Captain part to give it some pizzazz.
My mom, the only soul in the universe who knew my secrets—well, one of my secrets—was totally ignorant of feathered raptors, so she copied a bird from a book and emblazoned it on the chest of the uniform she whipped up. Wouldn’t you know? It wasn’t a falcon; it was a hawk! Worse, some bird-watcher freak recognized it as a chicken hawk, and that was that. Little did anyone understand how appropriate that name was.
Mom was also the only person who knew where my powers come from, but she wouldn't spill the beans, not even to me. She’s mentioned my absent father exactly once to say he is ‘one of a kind.’ Was I sired by an alien being?
I spent most of my time soaring over the town keeping an eagle … uh, hawk-eye … out for misbehaving miscreants. Did I draw excited squeals from little kids? “Look! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No! It’s Captain Chicken Hawk!”
I observed a west side drive-by shooting one day and followed the shooter’s red ’57 Impala to a semi-rural area near the Bosque. When I landed on the road in front of the driver, he screeched to a halt, and with my supervision I saw the lean, young face behind the windscreen harden.
The kid tromped on the accelerator, and the Chevy shot forward. I executed a somersault over the speeding car and grabbed the rear bumper, twisting the vehicle so that it left the road and bumped across a rough field where it became mired in the sandy soil. The driver bailed and bolted.
Once again, I took flight and landed in front of the youth. His look went from surprise to panic as he snatched a pistol from his belt and leveled it at me. “Get outta my way!” he yelled in a baritone gone shrill.
Oh, crap! Not that. I hate guns. Bullets sting like crazy. So I obeyed him. Performing another graceful somersault, I landed behind the startled gunman and grabbed the black thirty-eight revolver from his hand. Seizing him by the scruff of his neck, I took off. Fantastic! I not only had the shooter but also the weapon used in the drive-by. A slam dunk for the cops!
The little bastard had other ideas. He immediately shrugged out of his muscle-shirt and landed in a heap on the ground. He scrambled to his feet and loped across the field, limping slightly. I hovered above him, admiring the kid’s spunk … not to mention those wiry back muscles that rippled nicely as he ran.
The kid was slender, almost thin, but his torso had decent definition. Brown skin wet with the sweat of his efforts and fear, glistened in the afternoon sun. He was about to reach cover, so I swooped down and latched onto his belt, angling for some quick altitude to intimidate the kid.
Didn’t work. Before we were ten feet in the air, he slipped headfirst right out of his baggy, gangsta britches and fell back to earth. If the guy was fetching before, now he was downright sexy. As I dropped in front of him, he came to another quick stop, panting and glaring at me wild-eyed. His chest heaved deeply … erotically. Why would a handsome kid like this shoot another human being? The ink on both arms might have been clues, but I didn't read Tattoo.
“Who … who are you?” he demanded breathlessly. "That Captain … uh, Captain…”
“Hawk,” I supplied helpfully.
“Chicken Hawk,” he corrected contemptuously.
“I’m your worst nightmare kid,” I replied with as much decorum as I could muster “I’m going to bring you before the bar of justice.”
The little punk laughed. “You talk like a comic book or something! Hell, you look like a comic book.”
“That’s the way superheroes talk,” I sputtered indignantly. “Now it’s time to see you to the authorities to answer for shooting an innocent pedestrian.”
The guy didn’t learn very fast. He made another run for it. I snatched at his shorts, but he ran right out of them. There wasn’t anything to do but hug the naked thug, so I clasped him around the waist and lifted off, heading straight for the cops at the scene of the crime. After handing over the revolver and explaining where they could find the kid’s car, I prepared to take my leave. An officer stopped me by handing over a piece of paper.
What's this?" I demanded.
"A ticket for indecent exposure. I figure the perp didn't arrive that way voluntarily. So you're to blame."
I snatched the ticket and soared away, not to the usual hurrahs of admiring officers of the law ringing in my ears, but with laughter following me into the sky. A reminder not to deliver a naked suspect again. The cops were kinda particular about that kind of thing.
I know it’s ridiculous, but I had some fun with it. Hope you did, too.
Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns.. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from readers to get Dreamspinner interested.
My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
The following are buy links for CUT HAND:
And now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!
Until next time.
New posts at 6:00 a.m. on the first and third Thursdays of each month.