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Blink’s Journal, August 9t&%~~
Blink’s Journal, August 9th 2008

Tripped over garbage can. The city planners are conspiring against me. Putting obstacles in my way. This city is set up like a paraplegic’s spine. Enforced No-Drinking policy needed in city council. Would be unlikely, but one can hope. This city is dirtier than a drunk uncle’s mouth. And I am the soap and mouthwash.

Went to work this morning without a hitch. It began like any day Winsday in Twilight. The streets congested by the morning commute in the not-so-fair city. Smog and car horns. Road-Rage and bad drivers. You know, the usual. A friend from work see’s me walking and decided to give me a ride. Says I’m a nice guy. Says it’s the least he could do. Says I’m the only one who re-fills the coffee machine when it’s empty. I died a little inside.

The name’s Blink, I’m a Cape. Thems what the thugs and hoodlums calls us folks. The masked vigilantes who clean the scum of the streets. If only my day job was as good as finding trouble in this city, I’d be on easy street. Instead I’m stuck in an office from Eight to Five with a nasty lump on my noggin. At least I got this Journal to share my troubles with.

After work the sun went down and the criminals came out to play. I’ve been investigating a lead I got from a friend at work. Apparently there’s some guy setting homeless people on fire. Ever since then questions kept coming up like a computer without a pop-up blocker.
“The hell do I start?”
Then it hit me like a punch in the nuts. I needed a clue and a drink. Where I was going next I knew both I could find. Question is, while anyone sing?

By the time I got to the Cannonball Tavern, the sun had set and the filth was foaming up at the doorstep. Good. This means we’re in business. The reception I got when I walked through the front door was worse than a Miley Cyrus song in a Heavy Metal Concert. Every scummy dirt bag in the joint gave me a look reserved for feral dogs and nine-year olds on an online videogame. Needless to say I wasn’t welcome.

I signalled the barkeep for a drink.
“I’ll have a ‘For Here, Grande, non-fat, extra sugar, 180 degrees Exigen-C Cocktail”
The barkeep slammed his hand down the counter.
“We don’t serve your kind here! Scram!”
His thick curly grey moustache twitched while he talked. Made me want to yank it clean off.
He leaned down and looked me in the eye. Looks like he’s caught on to my master plan. Time to blow this pop stand.
So here I was again, no leads, no ideas, and worse of all, no coffee. The boys on the news make it look so easy. With their fancy spandex costumes and shiny white teeth. I needed a new plan like a chain smoker needed rehab. Except unlike the rehab, the plan had to work. On my travels away from the café, I pass through an alleyway and wondered why a Frisbee got larger the closer it got to you. Then it hit me.

Looks like someone didn’t want me snooping around or fate had a disturbingly odd sense of humour. Before me was a Super ultimate Frisbee player. His arm was cocked to throw another one of those Frisbees.
“The hell was that for?” I rubbed my forehead.
“Frisbee man smash stupid hero man!!”.
Froth dripped down from his mouth. I’ve heard of these saps before. An illegal underground super-ultimate Frisbee ring where millions of chips get bet on the line and the players are allowed to use any means necessary to win. From performance enhancing drugs, tripping, to murder. This gorilla was one of the more abusive drug users. Probably ate them up like tic-tacs, except his breath didn’t smell any better.

I ducked as another Frisbee flew over my head. Looks like it’s time I introduced this guy to a friend I keep close to my heart. A few inches left and down of to be exact. I whipped out my MK Scorpion Compact. It has a 97 mm barrel length and fires .314 E-Boon manufactured rimless pistol bullets semi-automatically. A 13 round clip. A fully adjustable rear sight with a higher profile front sight for a possible suppressor attachment. An ambidextrous grip and a smooth black finish. My best friend.

The Ultimate Frisbee player offered a deal for a shot at my head in exchange for his Frisbee. But my friend is a gifted negotiator. He made 2 reasonable counter-trades that left the Frisbee player breathless. And when I say breathless, I mean I killed him. I took his shoes as a reminder of what happened next time he wants to try this again on anyone.

A few hours later, gunshots lead me to a strip mall near the slums. A cop was pinned down behind his squad car by the local gang hiding in a restaurant. It looked like a insta-noodle cartel sting gone bad. Boxes of unbranded noodles were scattered all over the place. A bugged officer was dead on the ground, the microphone and recorder bloodied and exposed on his chest.

I used the joint’s back door, snuck up on the goons like a man using the ladies room when there’s a line-up for the john. I finished them off quick and dirty. Shot three times, It was loud, just the way I like it. The fight was over, they never saw me coming. The cop wave’s me over.
“Hi Officer, a fine day for justice!” Any cheesier I’d be added to a college student’s lunch.
“Oh crap.” The cop was bleeding real bad from a wound on his side. He howled like a dog forced to watch a sappy teenaged-vampire movie. Except he couldn’t close his eyes or walk out the theatre.

Within a few minutes, squad cars and an ambulance were on the scene. I watched as the red and blue light mixture of the cop cars and ambulance erratically splash across the asphalt of the empty lot. Like a dance of capitalist butterflies turning the tide against the Communists. Beautiful.
The other officers just ignored me. Not as I envisioned being a Cape would be like. No girls, no fame, no news reporters. Just an empty city road underneath a street-lamp. The lights and sounds left as fast as they arrived. Something tells me the boys Downtown weren’t impressed with my handy-work. Now I have to find that Arsonist, or else nobody will ever take me seriously around here.

And just like that, the night gave me a present. Within the shadows of the back alleys, a flickering red light caught my attention. There within the alley, was a kid about to drop a match on a sleeping homeless man.
“Hey! What are you doing!”
The kid jumped up in surprise, threw his backpack at me and bolted out the other way like a Yankees fan in Red-Sox Stadium. The old man thanked me profusely after. Too bad the Perp got away. Or did he?

I looked through his bag and found his wallet and I.D. I turn it in to the local Somerset police.
A now-patched up Officer Rand puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Not bad kid, not bad at all.”
I smile, shake hands and make my way to the door.

Before I leave, the boys gave me a little something for my hard work. Apparently someone put a bounty on this kid. And I don’t mean the kind that cleans up spills either. 400 plastics. I guess, I could get used to this line of work.

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I was bored by the 3rd word >.>

Skip to third paragraph.

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I made it to the 7th word.

Is Satan honestly the only one reading this stuff? T_T

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I have a "tl;dr" tendency.

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I've won the 100k DD bet so many times, I should have the title "Mr. Luck"

I like your little turns of phrase, but I've seen half of these already. Either in your previous works, or in the case of the frisbee joke, on tshirts.
Also, the title doesn't really match. The pyro barely plays a part. :/

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<==
Well, I've got a hat!

1. The new stories are a reboot I guess of the first few stories I made. I realized that my ideas were too big to be left in such a small world.
2. Yes, I realized that the story didnt involve the Pyro as much as I wanted too.
3. If you figure out where I got the idea about an arsonist who set homeless people on fire, and the bit about stealing dead people's shoes, you'll figure out where my home town was.

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