Cicada-Man:
Chapter 1
David Tolkien wanted to die. Not through a
suicide by any means, just through an accident. Maybe he could push someone
away from a screeching bus, or have a head pushed into the tracks of the El and
its vibrating rhythms. Maybe he’d dissolve enough brain cells to just lie in
the concrete and dirt. He took another bite.
Pigeons danced with each treat the wind carried to this cluster of tables and
chairs under the interconnecting building passageway labeled Chicago Board
of Trade. No cloud crossed the pathway of sunshine pulverizing the eyes of
pedestrians a distance away from David and his cheeseburger. Everything else
smelt of bleach.
After checking the WiFi connection on his phone again, he stared at the flimsy
posters for Omni, PowerLady, and The Ares, all coming soon to theaters. He
rubbed his eyelids with a crumpled classified ads paper. His eardrums
would burst again if he so much as placed a headphone there, so he stood
with flabby legs, wrapper placed in the crumply bag. After a stretch and a rub
of his eye, David slumped on down under Chicago Board of Trade away from
the noontime crowds.
He
flipped through his wallet again under the shade of the El, fighting the tastes
of others’ cigarettes. A pile of texts had accumulated on his phone. He
wandered three feet from everything, especially the windows, stumbling now
without rhythm.
Headphone-less
ears picked up grunts and thuds traveling from an alleyway. With tense, sore
muscles, David put his back to the dirty store, inching his feet from the
tabloids the wind had brought to the ground. He peered over. Two men, in all
black shirts and shorts, leaned over a brown lump: one on his knees punching
the pile, another kicking it from a safe distance. The lump had boots and
texture, and twitched with each blow. Even without the rushing train, only the
faintest of sounds could wheeze its way out of the alley.
David
put his hand to his phone pocket, looked around at the two people in all the
city, then returned his gaze to the alley. A swelling in David’s gut tightened
his fists. He straightened himself up, setting his arms loose and wiggling as
he tapped his head to the bricks and closed his eyes. After a few quick
whispers, he smiled; David Tolkien wanted to die, but a hero’s death is best.
Suddenly,
as David stepped into clear view of the alley, the lump flew onto its boots,
raising its arms into two magnificent punches that knocked away its attackers.
They covered their bleeding noses on the ground. All present were frozen by the
man sporting dark brown body armor and bright red combat gloves. The boots
turned around in one stomp into a fighting stance, and David beheld the brown
ski mask concealing the hallowed-faced man with wrinkled chin. Fiery ski
goggles were the eyes of this lean one.
David
was still frozen when the kicking man launched an uppercut that the costumed
one easily caught with his bulging glove. This gave the second one time to grab
the old man’s thick pants and yank the body to the ground, causing the armored
back to sound off a CRACK as it slammed. Instantly, David rushed past the
dumpster in his way and got only a flimsy grip on the standing one’s arms before
he was shaken off. That man nearly turned around, but a spraying sound and a
shriek of pain later, he was writhing on the ground, sobbing. The masked man
was still clutching the pepper spray as he continued to swat at the attacker on
the ground.
It
was no trouble for David to pin the man to the shaded cement. He of the brown
ski mask stood, and fiddled with his misshapen pocket belt until his smudged
hand emerged with a pair of handcuffs. While latching them on the arms David
held in place, he spoke in a booming voice:
“I
now place you under citizen’s arrest for charges of criminal assault and
battery. You will now be brought to the nearest police station, where you will
reflect on and admit your sins.
He
repeated this verbatim to the other one, who was still crying as handcuffs were
placed on his misshapen wrists. One casual pull from each arm was enough to
bring up each captor. Before emerging onto the road, the brown-clad man turned
to David.
“I
thank you for your valorous actions,” he demanded. “If you could grace this
alley with your presence until I return for the ceremony, that would be most
kind.” With that, he marched out, dragging along the two criminals into the
street of small shops. He carried no sign of injury with him.
It
took David a while to unfreeze his jaw. His head was still spinning, his heart’s
pound had finally caught up with him. He collapsed and leaned his tired
shoulder blades on the rough dumpster, a small cluster of joy emitting from his
sigh.
He
spent the next five minutes panting. Though a quick check revealed there was
still no Wi-Fi to use, he could still remember posters for Omni, the Power
Lady, The Ares, St. Salt, and Whack-Man.
He
peeked behind him, and the masked man strode down this canyon imprisoned by
inside shadows. Upon arriving next to David, he knelt. Though very thin, a
surprising amount of tamed muscle lay inside the dirt-smeared red undershirt
protruding under his arms.
“I
shall not rise,” he stated, “until you have granted me that which I seek: the
title of a superhero from a superior to another.”
Too
quickly, David panted out, “But I’m not a superhero.”
“Your
modesty is admirable, yet who else could have aided one such as I on the true
genesis of my career, my first victory?”
“Your-
hang on, you haven’t won a fight on your own?”
“They
have all been victories in spirit. Occasionally, the combat last long enough for
the noble policemen to stop us both and detain the guilty. More often than not,
these superstitious and cowardly criminals flee and disappear before
apprehension! So I am truly humbled by your presence, you soft-spoken warrior,
for it has lead me to triumph and my own dubbing.”
His
body itched away, but David’s gaze remained. “Ok, you’re a superhero. Rise.”
The
man did not move his bowed head. Some pedestrians were looking down the alley
as they moved past, a few trying to contain chortles.
“Sigh…
didn’t I do it right?”
“Well,
it is customary for the hero to be granted a name by those he has served! I
believe both of us lent a hand to one another in this glorious and terrible
combat.”
“So
what would you like to be called?”
His
masked head looked to the sky, and he clasped his hands over his stained knee.
“If I were to be so blest to choose my own identity, there could be only one
name for me. I wish to be known in the hearts of those who crave hope (and the
hearts of those who detest the light) as CICADA-MAN,
a guardian of Chicago and an eternal servant of the Lord!”
“Right,
right.” David pulled out his phone and clunked it clumsily on the armored
shoulders one by one. “Ummm, having proven your worth this day, mighty hero, I
hereby dub thee Cicada-Man. Go forth and, and do your thing.”
Cicada-Man’s
wrinkled lips hung open in silent prayer, and caught a sniffle.
“Look,
I hope the fact that I’m not a superhero gets in the way of this.”
Cicada-Man
towered over the dumpster when he reached his full height. “It is of little
concern, now that we have both shown our courage on the field of battle. I bid
thee well, sir…”
“David
Tolkien.”
“Sir
David Tolkien, may the Lord bless you. Now I must depart.” He shook David’s
hand, than began a stride towards the smell of burning hot dogs in the street
outside.
“Wait!”
cried David, and Cicada-Man turned in an instant. David mouthed a few words as
he rubbed his temples, his grin increasing the longer the new superhero stood
in confused pause.
“…are
you hiring?”
Copyright (C) 2013 by Nick Edinger
Nice descriptive details. I feel like David should try to fight a little harder though; since he wants to die, I think he would throw himself into the fray more recklessly and try to provoke retaliation. Maybe have him try to throw a punch before getting decked by one himself.
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