Public Enemy No. 5

It is a dark and stormy Summer's eve when I step out of the shadows onto Piccadilly Gardens Terrace. There's hardly any foot or vehicular traffic. The Terrace itself is slick with fallen drizzle. The sky is overcast, making the night much more somber. The damp chill makes me think of my warm, cozy flat, and the impetus to get there in a hurry.

"Come with us," two burly goons in gray suits grab me by my upper arms in an iron-bound, bone-breaking hold, while slapping on a pair of handcuffs, growling menacingly, "You know what you did, buster." I have no idea what these two are talking about.

"You're making a mistake, Constable." Believing that they’re plainclothes coppers, I ask in my most conciliatory tone: "I want to see your badges and IDs."

"Badges?" one goon gives me a toothy shark's grin. "We don't hafta show you no badges!"

"That's right, jock-itch," the other chimes in, "we don't have to show you squat!"

I really don't have a foggy thought about whatever these two goons are grunting about. I tell them so. "I have constitutionally guaranteed rights----"

"Shithead, one of the goons, which I'll call Mr. Lummox, gets down in my face. "We ain't obligated to tell you nuthin' about nuthin'! Our advice to you, pal, is to button up and behave, or you'll arrive downtown plenty the worse for wear! Get my drift?"

"Okay," the other goon jerks me toward a late model sedan waiting at the curb with its motor idling, "let's get this sack of turds downtown!"

I suddenly get this funky, sinking feeling in my gut. You dumbshit imbecile! I curse at myself. You let these two gorillas slap on handcuffs without a "by-your-leave"! They could be pervs?!

Big Goon and Bigger Goon slam me into the backseat of a late model Studebaker four-door. The driver's seat is occupied. Mr. Lummox barks an address at the back of his head. Putting the automatic shift into drive, the sedan skips away from the curb into the light traffic.

I sit back, racking my brain about this act I supposedly committed, bringing the wrath of CID coppers down upon my noggin. Nothing. Five minutes or so into the trip, I realize we're heading for the Zambarano Bridge. We're moving in the wrong direction. Copper City is the opposite direction. This doesn't bode well for me.

Sitting there, wedged between two hulking Neanderthals, who look like they haven't gotten used to wearing clothes. From the quality and cut of their suits, Mr. Bruiser and Mr. Lummox shop at Bargains-Я-Us. Their over-stuffed, double-breasted suits are at least two decades out of date.

I take note of their brutish, backward-sloping foreheads and chins. Their noses seem to have been squashed into their faces by something powerfully persuasive. There are broad shoulders and a barrel chest, no neck to speak, large splayed hands with jumbo fingertips, and large kneecaps. Not somebody I'd like to go up against, not even as a last resort.

Compared to them, I'm a runt at five feet, eleven inches, and one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Looking like escapees from the Museum of Natural History's Neanderthal diorama, I look out of place sandwiched there. And yours truly, I look like I am Italian, Portuguese, or Spanish. I'm none of them. I guess you could say I'm Heinz 57, a mongrel. A big chunk of my ancestry is Norwegian, with a little Irish, German, French, Narragansett and Chippewa Indian, and liberal doses of African-American, Polynesian, Hawaiian, and Chinese thrown in to balance the pot. I'm just your Average 20th Century Joe American.

A fast twenty minutes later, we arrive at wherever this place is supposed to represent. We're in front of this dilapidated Brownstone. Mr. Bruiser climbs out first. Mr. Lummox jams me in the ribs with one of his fat, sausage fingers. "Whud d'ya need? An engraved invitation? Gidout!"

I scramble out as quickly as humanly possible with handcuffs restricting my movements. Outside, Mr. Bruiser lays one of his ham-hock hands on my left bicep. I'm not going anywhere without him.

Mr. Lummox unfolds his bulk from the back. "Keep the car runnin'!" he tosses this command over his left shoulder at the driver. "Won't be but a bodge-job to get the money."

Up the front stairs, we go. Mr. Bruiser jabs a fat index finger into the Brownstone’s doorbell. Its annoying ring signals another goon to answer the door. He could've passed as Mr. Lummox's baby brother. Standing aside, he waves us into a spacious foyer.

"I'll take him from here," Baby Lummox says. He hands both Neanderthals big, fat envelopes. Mr. Bruiser makes his payoff disappear into his over-stuffed suit jacket. Mr. Lummox takes his wad of bills out and starts counting.

Mr. Bruiser reaches out, stopping his partner in mid-count. "Put it away," he growls, "You're embarrassing yourself."

Mr. Lummox is startled by his partner's action, looking all the while like a scalded cat. "I'm just gonna make sure it's all here----."

Mr. Bruiser shakes his head no. "Just put it away, Seymour. I've done plentya jobs for Mr. Jupiter, and he ain't never stiffed me on no money!"

Anger and doubt seem to have a war on Mr. Lummox's brutish face. Doubt wins. Glaring at Mr. Bruiser, he stuffs the bills back into the envelope, sliding it into his suit coat's inside breast pocket.

Nodding to Baby Lummox, my former captors do an about-face, loping down the front steps to the waiting Studebaker. Then they're gone out of my life, hopefully forever.

Baby Lummox whisks me down a long corridor. I barely get a quick glimpse of anything before the next whizzes past. At the corridor's end is a finely milled, dark mahogany door. My guide raps smartly on the upper door jamb. A rich, male baritone sounds through the door. "You and our guest can enter, Charles."

I'm expecting to see a well decorated and furnished study or office to complement the rest of the house. As the door swings inward, I'm heart-fully disappointed. The sparsely furnished room looks like somebody has prepared it for wallpapering because half the walls are partially stripped. All the hardwood molding has been scraped and sanded. Paint-splattered drop cloths cover the floor. The room's two windows are covered by last week's newspaper. The chair closest to the door is empty. On the other sits an elegantly attired gentleman in a posh smoking jacket, wearing a cream-colored fez set at a jaunty angle on his head's right side. But the most remarkable aspect of the man is the golden, gem-encrusted, long-nosed Capitano mask covering three-quarters of his face, with only a pair of sensuous lips and a firm lantern jaw visible. The cover has a strong brow, in a perpetual frown, and a matched set of robin' s-egg blue eyes gaze at me in an authoritative focus from the mask's eye holes.

The last time I saw a mask of this type was in Venice, Italy, during the Carnival of Venice, an annual festival held before Easter. Like the Mardi Gras in New Orleans, it culminates on Fat Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday. New Orleans, with its Mardi Gras and the Festival of Venice, are practicing Roman Catholics' last hurrah indulging their stomachs with rich, fatty foods before Lenten self-sacrifice kicks into high gear. Not that any of this impacts my present circumstance.

It isn't anywhere near Easter. So, the wearing of this mask isn't because of any religious celebration. It is just too queerly weird.

"Mr. Lightfoot, please come in and be seated," my mask-wearing host speaks in a highly cultured voice, indicating the empty chair across from him with a nod of his head and the long nose of the mask pointing it out. "Charles, be a dear and kindly remove our guest's handcuffs. After all, we are among kindred souls."

I plopped my back end in the empty metal chair, as I rub my wrists to get the circulation pumping fresh blood through my veins.

I give Mr. Jupiter my most sincere look. "Mr. Pluto," I begin, but he cuts me off with a correction of his name.

"Mr. Jupiter."

"Mr. Saturn," I begin anew, "there seems to be a miscommunication on somebody's part. My name's not Lightfoot. It's either a blatant case of mistaken identity or a mighty big fuck up by the two goons who just dropped me off!"

"Mr. Lightfoot," Maskface speaks in a low, measured whisper. "I entreat you to forgo using vulgarities and gutter idiom while in my house and presence."

"Your house, your rules!" I top this off with my most sincere, apologetic smile.

"I have a comprehensive dossier sitting before me with the name and photograph of Alexander Cashman Lightfoot." As he speaks these words, I notice a foot-thick stack of papers bound together by a fanciful ribbon for the first time.

I get this frosty sensation zipping up and down my spine. I'm usually acutely vigilant of my situation, moment-to-moment. This double-telephone directory-sized stack wasn't there when I first entered the room. It was there when I approached the table, and it sure as hell wasn't there when I sat down!

Maskface begins tapping the dossier with the elegantly manicured index of his left hand. "Every important moment of your so-called life has been recorded within these pages. From your first breath at birth to twenty minutes ago. From your favorite color, preferred flavor of ice cream, to your most frequented sexual position." Flipping the dossier 180°, my erstwhile host pushes the stack closer to give me a better vantage reading the name written on its cover in an elegantly flowing calligraphy.

Maskface unwinds the string, slowly, almost tenderly. My host flips the cover---- and surprise, surprise!---- the face staring back is mine, supposedly an arrest photo taken at a precinct house booking during a time of one of my many arrests.

"Mr. Lightfoot," he says, his demure tones drip with sweetness and sarcasm, "feel free to peruse."

An hour, maybe more, I'm flipping through a fictionalized version of my life. Except for some names, addresses, and employment history, this is my life! There are glaring falsifications: a dishonorable discharge, multiple criminal convictions, and prison sentences. My discharge was honorable, nor have I ever committed a crime or served a single hour in prison!

I get three-quarters of the way through, before I slam the lousy thing shut, shoving it away in unequivocal revulsion. "This, this----" I'm so angry that I can't get a coherent sentence past my lips. Maskface has a shit-eating grin on his lips and a merry twinkle in his eyes at my exasperation.

Suddenly, I sure to my feet, bending over the table, so that my nose is almost touching his ridiculous mask's nose. "This pile of shit may contain some details about my life!" I roar, spittle is flying every which way, as I scream into his mask. "I've never committed a crime in my life! I've never raped any women! I have never piddled any children!"

"Please sit down, Alexander," Maskface says in soothing tones to placate me. "We can discuss your dossier like civilized gentlemen."

I'm not taking any more from this masked asshole. If I'm going to prison for a crime, it will be for murder after I choke Maskface lifeless.

Two steel clamps wrap themselves around my biceps. I'm slammed down into the folding chair with such brutal force that its sheet metal buckles beneath me, and I find myself seated on the drop-cloth covered floor. I see brightly, multi-colored pinwheels, exploding stars, and a barrage of shooting comets dancing across my eyeballs. A white-hot sharpness digs into the bottom of my spine. My coccyx must be broken.

"Help, Mr. Lightfoot to his feet, Charles," Maskface commands, "and bring him another chair. Please make sure this one has a padded seat."

As I stood there wobbling on unsteady legs, Baby Lummox was back with my new padded chair. He helped me ease my injured backside on to it. I expected a knifing agony to cleave my spine in two, but it was just three hot seconds before I found a comfortable position. He remains standing behind me, with his large hands resting lightly on my shoulders.

"Mr. Lightfoot," Maskface spoke after a long silence. "You are absolutely right about this dossier." This comes as a shocking revelation, as part of an insidious conspiracy to admit that I am being set up!

Before I can get a single word out, he holds up his left hand, as though he's a copper directing traffic. Baby Goon digs his fat fingers into my shoulders.

"Allow me to explain." He pauses, giving me time to acquiesce. I finally nod my head.

"I am the first deputy assistant under-director of the Shared Support Services of the Commonwealth's Federal Police Agency," he begins. "Now, the FPA has done such an excellent job at reducing crime overall across our fair lands that there is a current danger of staff reductions because there isn't sufficient remaining crime to keep our present staffing occupied. My mandate-- and a thousand others like me across our nation---- to arrange for a suitable criminal quarry that will keep our boys and girls in blue occupied. You, dear fellow, meet the criteria and all other metrics that we desire. Your military training alone makes you one of our top twenty candidates!"

"Charles," Maskface speaks to Baby Lummox, still standing behind me. "Will you please go into my other office and retrieve the Mass Expunger? I am sure that our guest will find that part of the operation quite interesting."

Maskface's man is gone for all of three minutes. Meanwhile, we have a staring contest. Neither of us blinks. I am damn positive that he is expecting me to carry out a break for freedom. He simply sits there staring, with a nasty surprise up his sleeve. Do I take the gamble it?

Before I can commit myself to a mad dash for freedom, Baby Lummox returns pushing this squat, technical monstrosity on a portable, wheeled table. The first thought popping into my head---- a piece of hardware from a bad 1950s SciFi movie.

"Mr. Lightfoot, ask me any question about this marvelous piece of technology?" I can tell by the smarmy smile plastered on his fat lips just how enthusiastically proud Maskface is about this piece hardware though it's his own brainchild.

"I'll bite," I say. "What do we have here, Baby Lummox?"

"This is the Univac H-10,000 K MkIV Mass Media Reviser!" The proud papa's voice has a little hitch as he tells me this.

"Exactly what does this Maniac H-10,000 K MkIV Mass Media Reviser do?" I ask, and by the tightening of his lips, he isn't keen with my little dig against his device.

"Why, Mr. Lightfoot, this apparatus will ferret out and eliminate every kilobyte of sought after information, no matter where it resides. No matter how sophisticated the firewall it hides behind!"

Maskface looks like he is on the edge of having multiple orgasms. Just a little bit of a shove will send him teetering into the abyss of oblivion. So, I go for the kill.

"How does it work? I don't see any power cords or Internet cables. Actually, I don't see much of anything!"

Maskface turned the portable table to bring the device in line with his position. He ran his left hand down its side, and it suddenly sprang to life.

Like a concert pianist positioning himself before the keys, his fingers move in a flurry of typing. I watch in horrified fascination as he types my actual name, and it appears on a view screen from out of nowhere.

Snapshots from my youth flash on the screen. I watch mesmerized as my primary and secondary school pictures dissolve into individual pixels. Family photos evaporate in the blink of an eye. Next comes my military ID and Fit Reps disappearing like so much effervescence. My life is gone in less than 90 seconds!

"Mister Lightfoot!" Maskface turns to me with sweat dripping from the mask's eye-holes and down his lips from beneath its edge. "All traces of your old life is gone forever!" He rubs his hands together as if washing away blood of my electronic death. "You are free to begin the next phase, where you will be of great service to your country and society!"

Either the man is a raving lunatic or the best damn actor I've yet to see. Make your move! You'll never get a better chance!

I make my move. A bee stings the right side of my neck. Suddenly, every erg of energy drains from my body. The room begins spinning away into cloying inky darkness.

I lose a big slice of time. Another nugget is a dim recollection of somebody else's memories. I remember being molasses on a frigid winter's day and the sensation of flying somewhere high in clouds.

When I come back to myself, I'm seated in a bus station. It takes a full minute before I can nail down the location. I'm somewhere deep in the Southern Counties, dressed in casual shirt and slacks. I have an inexpensive, sturdy pair of trainers on my feet. My face is covered in a full beard, something I have never done in my life. And I have an expensive pair of mirrored Sunnies hiding my eyes.

There's a full rucksack at my feet. Taking inventory of its content, I find three dozen authentic-looking IDs and driver's licenses, plus 15 grand in well-worn bills; all nonconsecutive serial numbers. There are several changes of clothing. Last of all, a shaving kit?

Mr. Jupiter and his Goons will be gobsmacked to realize that they've committed the mother of all cock-ups with the wrong git. I'm going to give them a damned good chase for their money. Then, the worm is going to turn.