Paul Vargis
TyTim Horton’s is the stereotypical cuppa for a Canadian, but for consistency one knows to go to McCafe at McDonalds. That was where this warm cup of double-double came from. Pen was snoring away in my inside coat pocket of a brown leather bomber. The Habs cap was pulled low, and my salt and pepper beard was giving away my age as I watched and waited across the road.
John’s voice from the cemetery still rings in my ears. Before it was silenced and vanished. So here I stand watching the old city hall and wondering if there is anything to be learned here from watching politicians’ do the shuffle. Another sip. And shuffle on into the square, past the statues of the Famous Five with theatre crowds letting out.
How do I explain the lost night to Susan? She who is the love of my life, since time immortal? She who would be putting the kids to bed again without me. I should’ve gone home sooner, not just standing in the street lit downtown waiting on what? Someone I know who is dead to walk out of City Hall? A mayor that died under weird circumstances, but still got a hero’s funeral because…well he was still a hero. The one who took the mask off to step in to true public service. Is that what the haunting voice is about? This time of sabbatical is to explore and learn about who I am, without the powers or is it to finally truly accept who I am as a powerful entity?
That is the fear. What if after all these years channeling the power I no longer have a human soul? Even though some would call Susan my lightning rod, she whose love pulled me back from the dark dimensions more time than nought. The low rumble of sirens. Like a third eye flash—police—something—seriously?
“C’mon Ricky boy, let loose for a change.” That voice of familiarity ringing in my heart. Just like when we were teenagers, and I would always caution John, but he was willing to bounce right in to the fray.
A crack of thunder, and lightning flashes across the sky like a bolt from Zeus’ hands of Olympus.
The cars are coming up First Street SW by the convention centre, heading towards the Anglican Cathedral. Rounding the corner to see clearly with my own eyes.
The shriek is deafening. The horrible potato sack mask and the bad thrift store clown outfit. It can’t be. Can it?
I gulp the last of the coffee and move towards it. A family in trouble, the father is out, and the other dad is trying to shield the kid. And the sledge hammer is up for another strike from the original deal. The first supervillain I ever tussled with that spawned 26 sequels: Killer Face.
Exhale slowly. Looks like Johnny may get his wish. It’s been awhile since I needed the bravado, but for some reason I can’t switch at will. What is up with the power down? Going to need to talk to Pen about that later, but first. A simple whisper as I role my ring on my right hand’s ring finger. “Bionics on.”
The lightning strikes.
The potato sack covered head jerks at the sound of the boom.
To Be continued…
A Monk's Musings 