"It's not supposed to be this easy," Ramrod said as he handcuffed the scruffy, would-be jewelry store robber to the lamppost.
"That's what they all say at first, but you get used to it," said King. King was about six-and-a-half feet tall, in his mid-fifties with grizzled white hair, blue eyes blinking behind a black mask and a perfect physique beneath a black spandex shirt and sweatpants.
"They don't make villains like they used to, do they?" Ramrod asked. He had a lot of respect for the old man, and it showed.
King grunted and spat on the sidewalk. "Kid, the villains make themselves. And no one with half a brain would be a super villain. What's the point?"
Ramrod laughed. "Taking over the world, of course. You got power, you want to rule the world, right? That's what Doctor Dread did, right?"
"Doctor Dread was a mental case who just happened to have access to nukes. Look, how the hell can anyone rule the world? The bureaucracy alone would kill you."
"Well, yeah, but..."
"Shut up, kid." King had a phone to his ear, mumbled a few words, then snapped it shut. "The cops are on their way. You'll want to get out of here."
"What about you?"
"I'll give 'em their report, then I'm out of here, too. I'm too old for this."
Ramrod laughed. King was always saying that. But there he was, every night, cruising the streets, beating up muggers, foiling robberies, busting dealers. Ramrod knew. He'd been tracking King for years. He'd learned his every move, duplicated and even improved upon his equipment. For instance, Ramrod's grappling hook actually worked. And he'd tried a number of projectiles -- billy club, throwing stars, boomerang -- but finally settled on the taser. It just worked better.
Well, Ramrod thought, my work here is done. He shouted a goodbye to King, but the old man ignored him. So he jogged down the street, rounded the corner and tore off his painted motorcycle helmet and mask and started to drive.
He was hungry, so he stopped at a Dunkin Donuts for a coffee and chocolate honey dipped. He smiled at straw-haired girl behind the counter, who ignored him. He sat down on the curb and ate the donut while he waited for the coffee to cool down.
A pair of black leather boots and dark slacks stopped in front of him. Ramrod looked up.
"Got a job for you," said a deep voice that came from somewhere behind dark glasses and a hooded windbreaker.
"Mmmphf?" Ramrod said, spitting pieces of donut. He swallowed. "I'm not looking for work."
"You're looking for this work."
Ramrod stood up. He wasn't a small man himself -- six-foot-three and all the muscle he could grunt out of himself at Jerry's Gym. But this man was huge. Had to be at least seven feet tall. But stood up straight, like a statue of a hero.
Ramrod stuck out his chest and balled up his fists. Always be ready.
"Are you looking for trouble?" Ramrod said to the man's chest. "Because I'm not looking for trouble. But I've got it to spare." Ramrod thought for a moment. He'd never been good at talking tough. He could throw a punch, take a punch, but threats... "Trouble, I mean," he clarified.
"Got a job for you," the man said again. "Follow me."
Ramrod stared after the man, striding like a giant, two-legged cat toward a black Humvee.
"What the hell do you want you sonofabitch!" Ramrod shouted.
The man turned and slowly pulled back his hood. Out of the shadows, his face was remarkably red. Smoke poured from his head. He removed his gloves. Smoke and fire billowed from his hands.
Then all at once, there was a sound, like a sonic boom. Smoke and fire burst from the man's body, advancing on Ramrod. Ramrod screamed. Then he stopped and collapsed in smoking heap.
The man put his hood back on his head, and pulled on his gloves. The smoke and fire dissipated. The man exhaled and looked up at the stars. Nice night.
"It was a good job," the man said, flatly.
He got into his car and drove off.
# # #
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