'Special Liaison' Can Mean All Kinds of Things

[The Future Warrior]

It was on days like this that he really wished he had done many things differently. Like bothered to get a jacket with a hood. Or an actual raincoat. Or just not gotten out of bed that morning. Or maybe, like...all of the fucking above. He hated rain, he hated being out in the rain, and he hated most of all how the rain somehow not only smelled like week-old half-burned garbage...but somehow managed to make everything else smell even worse. It was bad enough that everything just sort of looked and smelled like it had been put through an incinerator set on low and then painted over by a one-armed Bob Ross going through some tough times and without the energy to spare on making everything a 'happy' little accident.

But boy, this place was definitely an accident, no lying about that.

Trudging down the sidewalk, the tired, downcast expression of Resho Johansen was fixated firmly on the puddle and-strewn path ahead of him, with the occasional glance out into the road when he passed a particularly fascinating pothole. The unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth was now as damp and miserable as everything else about him, and had a disgruntled air about it that suggested it wouldn't light properly even if the bedraggled young man had had a way to light it in the first place.

He shuffled to a stop at the intersection of Fuck It avenue and Who Gives a Damn Boulevard, staring listlessly across the street. His eyes slowly swept from right to left, following the distant, muted glare of flashing red and blue at the next intersection as a police vehicle careened down the waterlogged street. Back home, that probably would've meant something. 'Hero Time!' he might have said, and put on a futile chase to follow the vehicle on foot. Over buildings (sometimes through them, if he was desperate enough) and causing enough property damage to warrant a week's income from the city to fix it all, only to still show up unfashionably late for whatever crime incident was in progress and barely contribute to solving it.

"Sometimes I really miss the good ol' days..." he muttered weakly, as he started to shamble across the street. "...then I get the urge to hit my head against the nearest wall until those thoughts go away." He was halfway through his listless tromp across Fuck It avenue when he heard a sound pierce the patter of the icy drizzle of ass-ejected rainwater. He squinted his eyes through the gloom, peering around. "...fuck was that? Someone calling for help?" After a second or two he shrugged, hunching his shoulders against a breeze that carried the wonderful scent of low tide at Rancid John's seaside manure disposal facility (a strange smell, considering there was no seaside down here), and trudged on across the street. "Nah...definitely not...probably just a truck backfiring."

"HEEEELLLLLP ME, DOOD! THEY'RE SMASHING ME AGAINST A WALL!"

Resho squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, god damn it...fuck you, hero instincts..."

The tired, disgruntled man turned aside to shuffle quickly down the street toward the source of the agonized kerfuffle. When he finally reached the mouth of the alleyway where it was going down, he was lost for words...for all of about two seconds. There was...a stuffed penguin, being forced against the wall and surrounded by a gang of street punks probably slightly more infuriated with the child's toy gone wrong than they were with their own choice of fashion sense. The former hero's confused stare was enough that it let the unlit smoke dangle freely enough from his halfway open lips to tumble to the wet ground.

"....okay, what the fuck. Clearly I hit my head either way too many times this morning, or way too hard, because I can't believe I'm seeing this..." he finally spoke up. "Look, I get you guys are pissed off because you smell like a more pervasive brand of garbage and shit than the general everything around here, but try taking a shower. No need to take it out on the stuffed arctic bird." The sequence of glares he received was equal parts and numbers confused and livid. "Do not hate me because I speak the truth, man. Also....the knives and guns and everything, wow. Really? It's gotten to the point where a bunch of wannabe gangsters can't even lace up their corduroy pants and go out to gangbeat a defenseless and....poooossibly innocent stuffed creature without needing to be armed. My grammy is rolling over in her grave, lemme tell you."

"Oi, fuck off, kid. This is none of your damn business!"

"Yeah, yeah, Wellington....it isn't any of my business. 'Cept I picked today to decide to be a hero. I'd hand you my business card, but I'm too broke to have any made." He held up a hand, index finger raised pointedly. "Also...I'm fucking twenty-nine. Don't call me a kid, jackwipe."