Johnson looks to his left. Then his right. Then up, down, and with a swift three-sixty he’s facing back at me. He nods into my eyes.
0300 hours. The scene is clear.
He steps away to re-button his uniform, into the limelight of the street-side lamppost. His gelled mane of hair gleams a golden brown. His regal Rank Badge twinkles as he fumbles, the words “Squadron Leader” wavering in its glare. The damp, oil-laden pavement shines iridescent beneath his body, the perfect pedestal for his virile stance.
He’s the most incredible man I’ve ever seen.
Once Johnson finishes buttoning, he turns back to me. He reaches down, pulls out his Multipurpose Ray Gun, and cradles it up to his chest. He beckons me with his signature tilt-of-head and we begin our careful slink into the dark alleyway. Trailing behind, I can only see the vague outline of his muscular stature, yet his taut body’s steady scrape against the concrete assures me of his presence. With each step the walls seem to close further and further in on him, but he continues confidently—careful, but confident.
And we hear it.
The glass clinking, heat rising, mouths moving: the sinful consumption is at work yet again! He knows exactly what he’s up against, and it’s not pretty.
But he stays cool. He’s done this a million times. Illegal Substances are Johnson’s specialty. Thirteen years ago, after only a week’s experience in the force, Johnson joined the Spencer Enterprise Village Squadron. With just two days of him here, the Illegal Substance Using Rate went from seventy-five point forty-four percent to twelve point zero-two percent! And he’s stuck with us ever since, the only reason why we’re now on that asymptotic approach to zero. Without him, our rates would’ve skyrocketed. Without him, all of society would’ve collapsed. Without him, no one would be anything.
And so right now, right as we’re about to reach the end of the alleyway, turn the corner, and enter into the forbidden clearing of crime, I’m not worried. Because no matter what we’re up against, he’ll find a way, he’ll get them, he’ll—
BANG! His shot into the air dissolves the darkness. We see two humans huddled about a dwindling log fire: a middle-aged man and a young woman, both dressed in business attire. They’re well kept. They haven’t been here long. But they’re holding ladles, lined with that familiar pale red film, the same pasty residue forming crescents atop their trembling lips.
They must’ve been ravenous.
“Stop right there, traitorous citizens!” They know Johnson. They freeze. “You treasonous fiends! Poisoners of all that is good! Inhuman Satanic receptacles! Ogres of the underworld passing for regularity!” He always goes on for a bit with his vocabulary. I get lost in his words; they’re genius, really. “Listen. I want you to take those grotesque utensils away from your mouths and place them down on the ground,” he says, soft yet stern. Quivering, they obey. “Now, hand me the can.”
The man abandons his nervousness and shrugs, coolly rolling his eyes upward, now wearing an impish smile. But with a ladle in hand, he was caught right in the act! It’s got to be here. And he’s got to be sarcastic. No respect to Johnson? Who is he kidding?! He’s high out of his mind.
Johnson doesn’t take this sort of insolence.
He lunges forward, grabs the man by his collar, and thrusts him back against the wall. He digs the body deep into the thick film of dirt, adjusting it until they’re at eye level. Johnson sneers into the man’s sockets and those dark gray eyes render him catatonic, unable to even beg for mercy.
This is Johnson’s signature move.
(And he does it so gracefully.)
“Now, if you don’t hand me this fucking can, we’re gonna have some problems. And Johnson doesn’t like problems. Problems make Johnson do bad things to duplicitous two-timers like you. Do you understand me?” The man manages a gulp down as his body begins again its rhythmic vibration of terror. Slowly, he wrenches apart his throbbing lips in order to speak, readying himself to release some wretched plea—
“NO! He’ll lie! He’ll lie. Don’t lie, Harry!” the woman shrieks, arms flailing about. The man shuts his eyes, defeated, and she continues on, “It was me. I have it! It was me. Here, here…” Hysterically, the woman runs over to an unassuming duffle bag in the corner of the clearing and two-handedly removes a massive can, its aluminum top sloppily punctured. Johnson relinquishes his grasp on the man, struts over to the woman, and seizes it. The man lays limp to the floor, no longer shaking, now lifeless.
“Family-size…” Johnson whispers in disbelief, holding it up closer to his eyes. He can barely wrap a single hand around it. Still transfixed, Johnson places his Multipurpose Ray Gun back in its belt carrier and reaches around to grab his Summoning Device—he needs his Squadron for this one. But before he can press that magic button, the man comes back to life, now kneeling in prayer position. Desperately, he breathes:
“Wait! Please, look, it’s just—” “SILENCE, GLUTTON!” Shame drapes itself across the man’s face. He lowers his head down to the ground in disgrace, his forehead hovering just above the beaten layers of piss and trash. But there are still some red droplets scattered about, some right within his tongue’s reach.
I can see them.
And he can smell one, right below his nose. He has nothing to lose. So he embarks on the ambitious stretch and successfully secures one last lick, the last he’ll ever get. A stifled shudder of pleasure, then a fall fast to sleep.
Meanwhile, Johnson plugs a few buttons on his Summoning Device and three male holographic forms instantaneously materialize before him. They all wear red velvet suits with red velvet bowties and red velvet pants, each with a red velvet beret on which their Rank Badges reside. “Squadron Liegeman,” they are. Their bodies are smaller than Johnson’s. They hold large, dimly lit cigars between their lips. Upon catching sight of Johnson, they themselves assume prayer position—though in more of a respectful sense than that of the submissive man criminal—and keep their cigars perfectly balanced in the process, gray clouds of smoke still willowing away into the digital ether.
“Alright, men,” at his command, they forsake themselves from their mandatory demonstration of respect. Wide-eyed, standing erect, they salute Johnson. He continues, “We’ve got a six-oh-two over here on Danner. Campbell’s Condensed Tomato. One can. Two humans. Family size. And it’s near finished. I suspect there’s more where this came from. I’ll report back when—
Knock.
—I get a better read—
Knock.
—on who exactly—
Knock.
—these folks are, and—”
Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock
“ANDY ROBERT BILSON! IT IS THREE IN THE MORNING! TURN THAT OFF AND GO TO BED RIGHT NOW!” Dad turned the knob and tapped my door open, revealing a sliver of hall-light where he carefully positioned one of his eyes. He held it there, unblinking, policing me to shut my own. “DON’T MAKE ME COME IN THERE…”
So I closed my laptop just slow enough for me to watch Johnson shoot the villains one-by-one, grinning horribly.
∞
Lizz Bogaard is a writer, editor, and basketball coach based in NYC. Visit www.lizzbogaard.com to learn more about her.
Follow her on Instagram: @bizzlogaard
