I came home from work like any normal day and there he was in the middle of my living room: tattoos webbing his forearms, black sweat shirt, and a do-rag on his head. A real pitiful excuse for a burglar, too. He had cut his foot somehow breaking in through the window.


He tried to bolt past me but I tackled him and slammed him to the ground. I pounded that bastard like…Well, like someone who had just broke into my house.


With my knees in his shoulder blades, I undid the double Windsor of my necktie and tied his hands behind his back. On the table was my cell phone recharge port which I used to bind his feet. Lastly, I got my Glock 17.  It had spent little time outside of its case. It still had that new gun smell.


As he struggled weakly on the floor, I told him to look at me. He saw the gun and started blubbering.


“Hush. I’ll only shoot you if you make me.”


I told him to sit up, to prop himself against the wall. He did so. I asked his name.


“Anthony.”


“Why did you break into my house?


No reply. I expected this.  I just wanted to see if he was cocky about it. I asked him again.


“I’ll just talk to the cops.” He said indignantly.


“Cops?” I said. “I’m not going to call the cops. Why do that?”


He just stared at me.


“I mean, you’ve disrupted my life enough. Now you’re saying I should waste the rest of
my evening giving statements then get to bed by 1:00?  Not worth it.”


“Just call the cops, man.”


“Let’s chat.”


He rolled his eyes. I asked if he had robbed any other houses. He said only two, in a different neighborhood, but couldn’t remember where. I asked him if he was in a gang. He just laughed and shook his head.        


“We’re de-centralized. We just do …whatever.”


“Tell me some names of the people you run with, Anthony.”


More dumb staring. I leveled the gun.


“Jake. A guy named Jake. We call him Iron Man sometimes…There’s Henry, Nicky, and
a guy named Stevie who we call Goldie ‘cause he’s blond.”


I asked why he chose my house. He shrugged and looked away.


“It looked easy. You know, with only one person living here.”


“How did you know only one person lived here?”


“We sat in a parked car across the street. We watched your comings and goings. That’s how burglars burgle, dude.”


I’m a pretty vigilant guy. I would remember an unfamiliar car parked across the street.


“What kind of car was it?”
“A Buick.”


 “What color was it?”


 “Green. Bright green.”


 I shot out of my chair and belted him across the face. Hard. Twice.


“Who tipped you off? I want a name right now or I will collapse your ribcage with my foot!”


“Stevie, man. Goldie.”


“How did Goldie know about me?”


“He lived on this street.  He told us that you lived alone, worked during the day and had some nice shit.”


“What’s his last name?”


“Cooper.”


That little rat. Stevie Cooper. He used to mow my lawn. Oval wire framed glasses that kept slipping off his nose as he sweated, pushing the bright red Snapper. He had been a nice kid, the Yes-sir, No-sir type. My last memory of him was last summer, sharing a Coke on my front porch, listening to him describe some TV show he had seen.


“Hey, what’s the plan here? My hands really hurt.”


I pretended to deliberate on the subject. Ever read the book The 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene? What I was doing to Anthony just then was called “suspended terror” by Mr. Greene, keeping the punk in suspense, letting him stew.


“You brought this on yourself. You have to learn to respect other people’s property. You want stuff?  Get a job.  Ever had a job, Anthony?”


“I worked at McDonald’s for a while. They didn’t give me no hours. I had to quit.”


“I did the fast food thing in high school, too. You can get a better job. You just have to have a good attitude.”


“And kiss a lot of ass.”


“Yes!” I said, “Sometimes you have to kiss ass. But when you find your niche you don’t have to suck-up as much. It’s temporary. This house and everything inside of it represents all the butt kissing, all the swallowed pride…You might think I’m privileged to live like this but it’s a daily battle to keep it.”


“I understand. I’m really sorry. You need to decide if your gonna turn me in or let me go.
You can’t let me sit here like this!”


“Be cool, Anthony. You should be thinking rationally not thrashing on my kitchen floor like a worm getting ready to be hooked. Be here now, Andy. Confront your fear.”


He stared at me, obviously not the philosophical type.


“You need a purpose, son. Here’s one: I’ll give you twenty bucks if you take me to Stevie.”


“Why do you want to see Stevie? So you can beat him up like you did me?”


“I only beat you because you broke into my house. I just think it would be a reality check to Stevie if he has to face me. Maybe I can reform him.”


Truthfully, I didn’t know why I wanted to go there. It all had been really exciting to me so far, a strange elation taking over me, one burst of inspiration at a time, like exploding in slow motion.


To prove my seriousness, I walked over to the utility drawer near my sink and took out scissors.  I cut the cord from around his feet. He immediately began stretching his legs.


“What about my hands?  You gonna untie them?”


“Not yet. Take me to Stevie and we’ll do it. Consider this another crucial life lesson. Suffering builds character. You should reflect on this.”


“Man, I’m too sore to reflect on shit.”
           

                                                                 *

Stevie lived in a cheap apartment unit across town: standard rectangular buildings that hadn’t been freshly painted in twenty years, kids’ toys and garbage littering the outside.


I untied Anthony’s hands. After I did, he gave me a cold stare which I ignored. My gun was holstered under my coat. At my behest, Anthony knocked on the door and announced himself.


Stevie’s face elongated when he saw me standing there.  I cruised into the room with Stevie backing up, trying to find an exit past me but my movements were synchronized with his. Anthony shouted, “He’s got a gun!” He attempted an all-or-nothing sprint through me which was foiled by a stiff arm to the chin. My other arm formed an acute angle that deflected Anthony’s desperate pounce.


What a bunch of clowns. I backed up to the door and whipped out Black Beauty.


“Okay, boys, let’s take a time out. Why’d you do it, Stevie?”


A baseball bat shot towards me at full speed.  She charged with it out front, battering ram style and could have done some damage if I hadn’t dodged in time. She was a scrawny, fierce little demon with snarling teeth and swishing brown hair, maintaining a major goddamn death-grip on that bat.


I flicked the gun around and whacked it into the side of her face. She cascaded to the floor. Stevie was beside her within seconds, crying, screeching expletives at me. Anthony was quiet, sitting on the couch, nostrils flared; observing as I liquidated what was left of his fearsome crew. Stevie laid it on thick. I rolled my eyes to let him know that giving me guilt wouldn’t gain him any leverage.


She wasn’t bleeding but would definitely be sporting an interesting-looking bruise on her face. As Robert Greene says: crush your enemies thoroughly.


“That’s just a taste of what you deserve, Stevie.”


I looked around the room, noticing all the random, obviously stolen, items in their den. It was like a hoodlum garage sale.


“So you came here so you could lecture me?”


“I just wanted to see how you were living. So, you stole all this stuff?”


“Iron Man stole it. Not me.”


“Shhh!” spat Anthony. He tossed his head back in silent disbelief.


“Who’s Iron Man? I assume you’re not referring to the comic book superhero.”


“He lives here.”


Another: “Shhh!”  


“Is he here now?” I asked. “Don’t lie.”


“No, he’s working.”


Three more doors were down the hall, closed. When I turned back I noticed that Stevie was whispering into his girlfriend’s ear as her head lay on his lap. It wasn’t necessarily suspicious.


“What are you guys talking about down there?” I asked.


“None of your business.”


“Why live a life of crime, Stevie?”


“I don’t steal much. My mom gives me my part of the rent. I only steal to buy her stuff. We’re trying to get married.”


“Aw. That’s sweet. Why don’t you get a job? This is clearly an example of the risks outweighing the advantages.”


“I’ve got an interview next week. Really!”


He looked down at his girlfriend again, touching her cheeks. Her eyes were closed now.


“Hey, man, I think she’s really hurt!” he said.


I stepped forward and peered over. Her face may have gotten a tad puffier.  “She’s not…” I started to say as an incredible weight crashed onto the back of my head and chilly wetness from the shattered 40 ouncer gushed down my back. Rough shoe soles stomped and kicked, some knuckles joined in, squishing me into the cheap twist pile carpet. I couldn’t get over what a big burly motherfucker Iron Man was. This was the first time I’d been beaten by a guy in a full Burger King uniform.


They didn’t stop there. My clothes were striped off. Duct tape surrounded my mouth, hands, and feet. At one point, Stevie was bent over me honking my nose. Anthony, beside him, said, “You should reflect on this.”


Iron Man wasn’t quite like the others. He was older, probably in his late twenties. His stony face read: ex-con. He pried Anthony for information about me.
I just laid there and let my mind go blank. I wasn’t anywhere near panic stage. They wrapped me in a bed sheet that smelled like a huge dirty sock sautéed with a decade of cigarette smoke.


“We’re goin’ for a joyride, buddy!” Iron Man jeered from the outside of the sheet cocoon. “And you get to ride on top!”


They carried me outside and tied me to the top of a car. I couldn’t see it but it seemed like some kind of late model station wagon. The engine of this vehicle sputtered unevenly and filled my nostrils with an oily gassy stench. The bungee cords and odd pieces of rope pressed my body down over a painful rusty luggage rack.  


More whoops and laughter as the torture wagon got rolling.  Iron Man began the session by looping around the parking lot of the apartment complex. The rusty metal of the luggage rack was already sawing into my back.  Then he ripped out of the parking lot, easing it back to a normal speed.


Some inscrutable time later Iron Man shouted, “Hold on to your skivvies!” The car shot forward, zigzagging along the road.  Wild laughter provided a soundtrack to this hellishness. It slowed down, slammed on brakes, sped up, and slammed on brakes…
This went on for over two hours. Staying calm was impossible, my chest heaved, my eyes burned, and my guts twisted.


They probably hatched the next phase during the drive back into the city, Iron Man minding his speed, more lights and sounds outside of the bed sheet. I heard mumbled voices from inside of the car. Iron Man did most of the talking. A few chirps from the girl I smacked with the gun.


The car finally parked, engine shutting off in a dimly lit place. The smell was of garbage and mildewed metal.  


“This is where we say goodbye.” Iron Man said, ripping away the bed sheet, flashing those hideous teeth. He swiveled his head, “Hey, you bums. Help me lift this jerk to the ground.”


The bungee cords that pressed me against the top of the car were unhooked and so were the other pieces of rope.


Iron Man, holding my torso to the pavement, called for Anthony.


“He’s in the car,” said Stevie.


“In the car?” Incredulous. “Anthony, get your ass out here!  This is your mess I’m dealing with.”


The car door opened. Anthony came around. He told Anthony to hold me down while he got the ropes. Anthony stared down at me and shook his head.


Iron Man tied the ropes so that about ten feet dangled out. He tugged on them, checking them over and over. Stevie and his purple-faced sweetie were intertwined in each others arms, like this was some kind of date night entertainment.


Finally, under Iron Man’s instructions, they picked me up and carried me. I didn’t squirm or put up the least bit of resistance. They intended to dangle me down the side of the bridge. It was the 16th St. Bridge over the river. That accounted for the mildew smell.


As they laid me on the ground, Iron Man squatted down beside me, his hand fumbling at his side for a second. It returned brandishing a huge Bowie knife.


“You’re going to, uh, hang out here for a while. These ropes are nice and strong. You might not fall into the river. If you do survive, you better not mention me or anybody else. If I see you again, I’ll kill you outright!”


The three of them hoisted me down. The girlfriend hawked and spat on me. Giggles, cackles, and insults followed me down the side of the brick wall.


Ten feet of rope. That put me about thirty feet over the river. Even if I fell I would survive. I was a champion swimmer in college. Still, I felt disembodied, out of my skin, vulnerable, and disoriented. All the books I had ever read about gaining power over others were second nature to a guy like Iron Man, having transformed me into a quivering wuss without a single reference book.


The night was cold. The darkness was suffocating. The worse pain was in my feet, the rough sharp ropes squeezing them tightly. Strangely, the duct tape, still around them, acted as a barrier so they didn’t cut into my feet so badly. The duct tape on my hands was almost off by the time they lowered me down the wall.  


If the rope had been three feet longer I would have been screwed. I had a chance. I was dangling by the arch of the bridge so there was a decent amount of wall for me to latch onto.


Because of my daily crunches and sit-ups, I was better prepared for this than the average person. I gave one mighty abdominal thrust. My hands flailed. I sagged back down. Then again. One hand gripped the rope at my feet. Thrusting more, my other hand found purchase at the underbelly of the bridge. I inched my hands upward until they both gripped the rope. My dilemma while hanging was too much space now there was too precious little.


Sweat stung my eyes. My final challenge was reaching the railing where the rope was secured. My hands lashed out blindly for purchase. When my fingers finally did wrap around the railing I pulled myself up. My whole body was on fire with tightness, fatigue, scratches, and dirt. About thirty minutes I stretched out, letting my mind go blank, the fear and residual panic running its course.


I might have stayed like that longer if my poor feet hadn’t been screaming for attention. I located a nearby soda can, ripped it in half, and used it to cut the rope and tape away.  


It was the middle of the night. I was twenty miles away from my home and I was wearing only a pair of white underwear. It was time to think outside the box.


I knew I had to get out of the alley but I couldn’t risk any more embarrassment. The steady stream of indignities I had experienced could easily spill over to the rest of my life. It could affect my job performance and the burgeoning relationship with the new girl. My co-workers and clients would see the weakness in my eyes.


It sounds exaggerated but its not. The reason I was in this predicament was because of Stevie’s wounded girlfriend. If I hadn’t looked down, Iron Man would never have hit me with the bottle and I’d still be in charge.


Three seconds of bad judgment. A conscience can be such a liability.


I crept out of the alley and took a look around.  It was a dingy looking side road, a weak yellow street light illuminating the dreariness.


There were many garbage bags sitting out near the road, bags that might contain clothes. I saw a grungy corner store displaying faded ads for cigarettes and cheap beer. I saw a thrift store with racks of clothes inside, except there were heavy bars over the windows.  


“Yo, man. Put some clothes on!” I heard close by, in the darkness.


“Hey, what’s wrong with you, bro? Why you out here in your undies? Ha ha…”


They were coming closer. While they laughed, I wrenched away a long wooden table leg from a heap of discarded furniture next to me and followed the sound. I plowed the table leg directly into one of the guy’s head. The other guy got a fist in the stomach. Then he got a stick to the head. I beat both of them until the tip of the club was wet and they were both lying in the street.


One of the guys was dead, for sure. That was the guy I stole the clothes from: Tan bellbottomed slacks, a V neck sweater and China made Italian loafers.  


I heard some excited chatter in the distance. I hauled ass.


My favorite motivational speaker is Ted Braidner. I have all of his DVDs at home. Ted says that a goal is best obtained if it is viewed as a series of streamlined steps. It is easy to lose sight of your goal the more complicated the steps to obtain it are. My goal was to get to Iron Man. The streamlined way of obtaining that goal wasn’t to walk there, to hitch a ride, or even to steal a bicycle. I needed to find a car, a car that was already running.


Three blocks later, I put the Streamlining Principle into effect. A car was stopped at a red light. I exchanged my wooden stick for a chunk of pipe I found on the ground. I ran up to the car and plowed it into the windshield.


The woman was in her twenties or early thirties. Who cares? I pounded her until she was easy to dump onto the street. I pealed out.


I almost got lost on the way to Stevie’s house. I had to double back a few times. As I rode past the first block of apartments and spotted that scrawny demon-bitch. She was wandering in the middle of the parking lot, chatting on a cell phone, the other hand holding a Ziploc bag of ice to her face.  


I gunned the engine and plowed straight into her. As she was lying there, twitching on the asphalt, I scooped her up and shoved her into the back seat.


I had plans for Iron Man and his ragtag crew. I wanted to take them for a ride.


I backed the car into the parking space closest to Stevie’s door. The girl made gurgling sounds from the backseat. The voice of Ted Braidner was going through my head as I approached the door with my metal pipe:


“Don’t just be a person, some ordinary person! You’ve got to be a force!” My mind’s eye showed the great Ted Braidner shouting to a packed auditorium, his fist extended in the colored lights, “A force of nature, a zap of lightning, a clap of thunder, an unadulterated concentrated burst of passion and strength…”


I kicked open the door and charged in. They were watching TV.  The first blow cracked Anthony’s collar bone. Stevie stood up and got one in the stomach. I found my gun on the end table. Stevie lunged from the couch and I kicked him in the stomach.


Iron Man came charging down the hall with the Bowie knife extended. I drew back the pipe and batted the knife away. I landed another to his shoulder. He grinned.


“Thanks, honey! That felt great!”


A fist like a cinderblock crashed onto my cheek, then another into my chest. I didn’t have time to think about the gun which, like the pipe, fell from my grip. Two or three more and I lay on the dirty carpet once again.


Iron Man jumped on top of me, pinning my arms down with his knees. I noticed that the stupid Burger King hat was still on his head, turned backwards. He retrieved his knife.


“I’m going to carve my initials into your face.” He muttered, leaning in close. “Where do you want them? On your cheek or forehead?”


I shot my head up and bit down on his nose. I kept biting until the lower and upper teeth touched and that bulbous hunk of flesh that had been Iron Man’s nose was swimming hideously in my mouth. He fell off of me screaming. I spat this vile mess towards the wall, wiping away blood and mucus with my shirt sleeve. I spotted the gun.


“Get in the car or die.” I said to Anthony who was still clutching his shoulder. I blew two holes in the wall.  Stevie sunk his head into the cushions.


“This is what happens when you fall in with a bad crowd, Stevie. Reflect on this!”


I had to motion the gun at Anthony one more time. He wasn’t following orders. Iron man was squealing. He managed to strip off his shirt and was using it to plug the gushing hole in his face. I pushed him out the door.


With another burst of inspiration, I fired twice at the stolen car’s back windshield. Grabbing Iron Man by the shoulders, I threw him into the ruined remains of it.


A crowd was forming outside. Anthony escaped. I hopped into the driver’s seat and started it up.


Burning out of the parking lot, I was amazed that no police had showed up yet, just a gaggle of white trash rubberneckers.


“How’s the air back there?” I joked. “Buckle up, Iron Man! Safety first!”


I zigzagged along the street mimicking Iron Man’s driving earlier. I wasn’t sure where I was taking him.  


Suddenly, a pair of hands gripped my face from both sides, clawing at my eyes…


I thought I had finished him off when I shoved him through the glass.  He was still alive.


I heard a loud roar. White light filled the inside of the car.

 
                                                                    *


So, now I’m here. Where’s here?  I really don’t know. I’m certainly not dead. Maybe I’m just really doped up in a hospital bed. Maybe I’m in a coma. I hope not.  Maybe I’ve obtained the state Ted Braidner had referred to in metaphor, “a force of nature, a zap of lightning, a clap of thunder”.


I feel unfinished. A pure element should keep surging with vitality but I just hover here like a balloon stuck in a tree, the carnival long gone. By now, Anthony’s collarbone has healed and he’s shooting hoops, hatching more burglaries. And Iron Man. Tough vermin like him always pull through.


I’m just waiting to finish my work. If I’m not paralyzed, those creeps can expect a visit from me.

I’m just getting started.