PANDORA DRIVER:
Blind Luck
By John Picha
INTRODUCTION
Can you imagine a time without computers, the Internet, or TV? Telephones were connected to walls by wires, and a "cell" was a place to put bad guys. The daily news was delivered by a paperboy, not a cable. Laptops were where children sat to tell Santa their Christmas wish lists. Magazines were presented on pulp, not iPads. Entertainment in the airwaves was received by vacuum tubes in a wooden radio, the centerpiece of the family room.
In the spring of 1940 women wore bright red lipstick, men followed new hitter Ted Williams, kids packed peashooters, and everyone wore hats. In theaters "The Grapes of Wrath" was shown in black and white. Warm Philcos put many "In the Mood". And down-on-their-luck dreamers followed the council of a cartoon cricket by wishing upon a star.
Overseas the war in Europe expanded. Encouraged by the successful blitzkrieg of Luxembourg, Belgium and the Netherlands, Hitler's Wehrmacht invaded France. In England Winston Churchill responded with his "blood, toil, tears, and sweat" speech promising "victory at all costs". He hoped to inspire British troops and recruit international allies. But most Americans weren't listening. They had no appetite for another war and a growing number of isolationists turned their backs. They had plenty of homegrown problems to deal with.
The Great Depression nearly smothered Citadel City due to high reliance on manufacturing jobs. As the country slogged its way out of the economic downturn the unemployment rate decreased to 15%, but the modest prosperity didn't trickle all the way down.
Opportunists with a class advantage continued to pick the bones of the hungry...
CITADEL CITY, SPRING 1940
Ray Walker, a Scot in his mid 20s, isn't exactly sure where the cry for help comes from as the harrowing words ricochet in through the kitchen window of his apartment. He was working on his breakfast, but now he couldn't just sit and eat knowing someone else is in trouble. He could tell the voice came from somewhere on the street below, but he didn't waste time for a peek. Instead he races down two flights of stairs in worn socks sometimes skipping four steps at a time.
CLUMP- FUMP CLUMP-FUMP CLUMP-FUMP
THUDD
At the second floor landing, he grabs the knob of the worn oak banister and swings around it to pick up speed.
CLUMP- FUMP CLUMP-FUMP CLUMP-FUMP
THUDD
He hit the first floor with a leap, then races past a wall of brass mailboxes. Bursting through the entryway of the brownstone, he lands on the concrete stoop and discovers the confused and concerned faces of his neighbors gathering up and down the tenement block. From above, many onlookers crane out apartment windows desperately trying to locate the source of the distress call.
An old man's voice, with a distinctly Yiddish accent, cries out.
"HELP ME! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME!"
The 100 or so witnesses all turn in unison to face Hooperman's Bakery on the South corner.
He yells again. "GET AWAY FROM MY STORE YOU FARZEENISH! FEH! FEH!" He punctuates his words by spitting twice.
The old man wears half-frame-glasses, a bowtie and a white shopkeeper's apron. He is struggling with a much larger opponent, a thug in a crisp black suit with wide shoulders and maroon Mossant hat. Growing agitated by the old man's resistance, the thug forces his exasperated victim back inside the store. After all, the original plan was to have a private meeting to make a deal. He kicks the door shut behind them.
SLAM!
Two more men dressed in jet-black Mossants and dark overcoats emerge from one of the few automobiles parked on the brick street. It is a sleek, dark-red 1936 Cord 810 sedan that stands out in a neighborhood of laborers like a diamond in a coal chute. Even if some residents of Colfax Street could afford an automobile, they have no need to drive. Everything required for survival is either within walking distance or dropped off by delivery boys.
The foreboding pair stride to positions on either side of the bakery door. From suspicious bulges, they reveal tommy guns and cock them before scanning the growing crowd for potential agitators.
Ray swallows hard to force the spit down past his pounding heart. He has heard of the guy in the maroon hat and Cord. It's the Gooch. The word on the street is, he has recently begun haunting this part of Citadel City like a wraith. He is a dangerous bastard.
The Gooch had been beaten into existence by his uncle. As an adult, he could feel no pain in himself or sympathy for others. He is the type of guy who likes to hurt people and would do it for laughs, money, or personal advancement. The way he sees it, the world is divided into givers and takers. One day after he had taken enough from his uncle, he gave him a push in front of speeding bus. He remembers the fear on his uncle's aging face as he realized what had happened. Deep down inside the Gooch has always suspected, that if his uncle had time to think about it, he would have been impressed by the boy's ingenuity.
Upon impact, blood spurted from his uncle's skull, spattering his nephew in red. Reflexively, the little Gooch licked the newfound trickle of moisture from his lips and swallowed. It tasted sweet, so he licked more from his wet hands until a passerby stopped him. To this day, he's saved his little blood stained shirt as a keepsake. It is neatly folded in his dresser drawer, not on the floor, just like his uncle taught him.
The Gooch grew into a self-made man who pulled himself out of poverty by bloodstained bootstraps, once he collected his uncle's life insurance policy from the accidental death.
His uncle taught him that life wasn't fair. On his own he learned that you could make things fairer simply by lying. If others aren't smart enough to figure that out on their own, fuck'em. You could get whatever you wanted from people, if you could figure out what they needed to hear. And if that didn't work, there were other painful and permanent forms of coercion.
As he grew, he realized many others shared his beliefs, oddly enough most of them were loaded. Their web of amalgamated lies provides the Gooch with the wealth and freedom to operate above the laws written for common men. He teams up with the takers, because the givers are suckers.
***
Ray stands on the sidewalk in his socks, high-waist, tan trousers and suspenders scanning the multi-cultural crowd for a beat cop. Strangely, not one is around. He spots the wrinkled face of a scrubwoman leaning out her window and calls to her. "Hey, Mrs. Carney. Telephone for the police!"
She nods frantically, then ducks back into the safety of her apartment above. On the streets below, mothers are gathering their children and shepherding them away from the crisis.
Ray's eyes land back on Hooperman's store, looking for activity between posed loaves of bread and a patchwork of painted sale-signs in the window. Unconsciously, he inches toward the bakery. He thinks‚ "I have to help somehow, but I don't want to get killed in the process. I don't want to see anyone get hurt. What could the Gooch want with Mr Hooperman?"
Witnesses closest to the bakery gasp at the muffled yelling and crashes from within.
Ray clenches his fists, shakes his head and thinks, "These days it seemed that the ones who care least about people, have the most power over them. The rest of us, without resources, are powerless."
***
The Gooch is a 6-foot tall Italian man, built like a bear, and missing the lobe of his left ear. He has a serious face with thick eyebrows that converge at permanent scowl lines etched between his heavy dead eyes. The Gooch is, by far, the largest person occupying Hooperman's Bakery.
The warm aroma of birthday cake and fresh bread permeates the narrow bakeshop. A long glass display case ran the width of the back wall. Shelves packed with cakes, cupcakes, pastries, cookies and confections of every variety subdivide it. Handwritten signs hover over each tasty treat like they are thinking of their own prices in pennies. The glass ends at a large ornate brass cash register with a crank that is bolted to a heavy wood checkout counter.
Baskets of bagels and bread racks are strategically positioned to guide customer traffic through the store. They are stacked with options to serve the eclectic tastes of a community of immigrants. To the side, a coffee station rests against a wall near two wooden tables and a selection of mismatching chairs and stools.
Considering the volume of food packed into the space, it is actually pretty well organized. By the end of a typical day all the shelves would be empty. But this was no typical day.
The Gooch has Mr Hooperman firmly by the neck. His grip choice wasn't made so much for choking, but more so he could maneuver the noisy shopkeeper around more easily. Mr Hooperman rages and carries on. The more emotional he becomes, the less English he speaks. The Gooch can't make out any words of the German sounding gibberish, but if he is going to continue, and hopefully conclude this negotiation successfully, he would need control of the babbling, exasperated old man.
The Gooch grabs a chair and swings it over Mr Hooperman's head.
SMACK!
It knocks him to his ass. He sits on the checkerboard floor in shocked silence holding his head.
The Gooch replaces the chair to the floor in front of the glass counter. He points to the chair and calmly says, "Sit in it."
Mr Hooperman surrenders with his hands and cautiously complies.
The Gooch tips his maroon Mossant and says, "Thank you. I brought you back in here because I didn't want to embarrass you in front of all your neighbors out there on the street. I didn't want you to be in the uncomfortable position of making a spectacle of yourself resisting me so publicly, so theatrically, that you wouldn't be able to make this deal out of some misdirected sense of pride."
The Gooch notices beads of sweat forming on Mr Hooperman's bald forehead, and casually wipes his opponent's brow with his bare hand. Then sticks his fingers in his mouth to taste it, as casually as one might remove lint from a friend's jacket.
Next. the Gooch produces a folded contract from inside his breast pocket and hands it to Mr Hooperman. He taps it and says with a smile, "This will release you from your lease."
Mr Hooperman sputters, "But, but, I pay my rent on time. I keep the place clean. I've done nothing wrong."
A friendly smile slithers across the Gooch's lips. "I'm not saying you did anything wrong. In fact, you did something very right. You staked out a prime location for your store. We're even going to pay you a modest finder's fee for your trouble. All you have to do is sign."
The Gooch points to a line on the trembling papers. "It's all there in the contract. The number is right here at the bottom."
Mr Hooperman doesn't look down. He cautiously looks back at the Gooch and says through dry lips, "But I don't want to give up my bakery."
The Gooch releases a long disappointed sigh, then shakes his head and calmly says, "I thought Jews were supposed to be smart business men. Look, we want this store and we want this to be a friendly deal, but it doesn't have to be."
He reveals a revolver from his coat pocket then continues, "We want this to be a friendly negotiation, where everyone goes home happy. We don't want to be forced to do something drastic. We don't want any bad blood with the neighbors as we make the transition. We want them to be our happy customers too."
Waving his revolver while gesticulating, he inadvertently points the business end at other people trapped in the bakery. They cringe.
GASP!
Their reaction attracts the Gooch's attention. Thirteen other people had been stuck inside since the Gooch's invasion. They are a mix of counter-girls, homemakers, old men and children spread though out the store.
The Gooch looks back at Mr Hooperman to assuage his potential concerns in a whisper. "Don't worry about them, I'm not going to hurt them. I'm just going to hurt you, unless you sign these forms. Just do what your told."
Mr Hooperman manages to produce a disarming smile as he holds up his hands to try and halt the eviction process and gently reason with the Gooch. "Please, please let me explain for a moment. You may not realize this but terrible things are happening to people in my homeland. They are not safe, and we are trying to get as many people out as possible. We send them the money we make from the bakery for safe passage to America.
"Once they arrive here in Citadel City, we bring them to the bakery. Sometimes they live downstairs for a while. Sometimes they work in the shop for a while, until we can connect them with relatives across the states to take them in. Sometimes people in the neighborhood, strangers really, take them in or even help them find work.
"As a community, we sustain one another. This neighborhood is our home. We are surrounded by people we love. We all know what buying from the bakery means. It saves people. Times have been tough, but it's been working, we're still here."
He points to the delft-blue wall behind the counter. It's covered in a mosaic of hundreds of photos. The round and rectangle frames contain portraits, wedding photos, and a multitude of family photos across generations.
Mr Hooperman chokes up and continues, "Every week we get more letters as the word of our bakery spreads in Europe. Every week we get more letters describing unspeakable horrors that newspapers don't print. The address of our bakery is spreading. It's passed by word of mouth. They memorize the address in English. Sometime people arrive here from a long trip looking for shelter. You don't know what this humble little shop means to them. This bakery is like a freedom depot, and we can't risk losing this address. If the bakery is gone where will they go? Surely you can see how important my humble bakery is to me and to others."
The Gooch is unmoved. "You're making this more complicated then it needs to be. It's not that I don't understand what you're saying, I just don't care."
Mr Hooperman closes his eyes to dam his tears.
The Gooch continues, "Look, there are three ways this can play out."
He counts on his fingers as he runs down the list. "One. You sign the papers. You get your money. We take the building. Everyone goes home happy. Two. The bakery is struck by Jewish lightning for the insurance. Guess who'll be blamed for that? You go to jail. We take the building. Three. Something worse will happen."
Mr Hooperman says nothing as tears run from his eyes. The Gooch uncaps a fountain pen and hands it to him then continues. "This is the way things are done. This is how Citadel City has grown into this magnificent kingdom. So what's it going to be, the money or your life?
"Important people are waiting."
***
A 1932 Packard 8 De Luxe 904 Sedan-Limousine turns onto Colfax Street. It arrives from the North like a yacht into the waterfront. The Aztec-Olivine-Brown and Tacoma-Cream body shimmers as it gently parks far behind the preoccupied crowd. It's hood ornament, a chrome flying-lady leaping from the bonnet, sights Hooperman's bakery from a distance.
After a moment, the Packard creeps slightly forward, then slightly back in a two-point micro-turn. A moment later, it inches slightly forward again, before stopping suddenly and rocking on precision crafted springs. Then it lurches left. It changes positions once more with a slight turn, then stops once, stops twice, then a third time. From inside the limousine a tinny voice speaks to the driver via speaker. "For Pete's sake, I just want my automobile to be in the right spot."
A large black man in a gray chauffeur's hat and uniform sits in the drivers seat holding the wheel tightly in two hands. He says nothing as he impatiently anticipates the next command. He hates this job, but jobs are scarce and he has a family depending on him. He would do anything to improve his children's lives, which means he would do anything for his boss, the Senator, to insure the security of his paycheck. He just prays that his boys would never find out the things he'd done.
Senator Graymoor has a face that seems to improve with age, and a thick head of salt and pepper hair. He’s wearing a dark gray, pinstriped suit and waistcoat. A tophat sits next to him on the luxuriant leather seat. He is the sole passenger of the 7 passenger Packard and separated from the driver by a clear glass partition. It can easily be lowered into the back of the front seat, but the Senator prefers talking at his chauffeur through a telephone of the dictograph-type. He holds it in one gloved hand while the other one repositions an architectural drawing against the window.
The chauffeur's voice croaks through the speaker, "Should I turn off the engine now, sir?"
The Senator clicks on the microphone and snaps back, "Just give me a moment."
He clicks the microphone off and tells his hat, "No one appreciates my appreciation for precision. If he would have just listened more carefully, the car would be exactly where I wanted already."
To compensate for his underdeveloped imagination, the Senator is attempting to line-up the perspectives of a dramatic charcoal depiction of a new building, and the existing buildings of Colfax Street. The new building covered Hooperman's Bakery. He, and select members of his constituency, decided the city would be better off if it were replaced.
He nudges the paper back and forth for a while, then becomes frustrated. He decides he can't make them match because he can't see enough detail on the street. The people were in the way. He abandons his effort and plops back into his seat then barks into the microphone, "You may turn the automobile off now, driver."
The precision purr of the engine goes silent.
With his arms crossed he gazes out at the rabble in disgust. He thinks. "Look at those unkempt savages, some without shirts or a sense of common decency. This class of people is no more than beasts, who can't understand what it means to be human, let alone know their place in the world. They live in the same district as I, but they certainly don't represent me, that's for sure.
"These people must be trained like dogs. You can let them do their business in certain areas, but if you let them run wild they'll shit everywhere, even where they eat. Their kind needs to be led.
"That's why the right people with the proper gravitas and a noble birthright were destined to take charge. The halls of power are filled with many, many, complicated things. Things animals just can't understand.
"It's takes an eminent senator to understand the true value of something like Eminent Domain laws. They give me the power to take private property that's being under-utilized and put it to a more equitable use. All I need to do is fill out a few forms, and explain why taking a property will be better for the public good. And since I can't really get caught lying about the future, I can write down any economic projections I want. The bigger the numbers the better.
"Then we takeover, tear down and rebuild as quickly as we can. If the projection’s numbers don't match, once the dust settles, I just say, oops, I was wrong. By then, it's too late to undo everything. It's easier to keep going forward. And if there is one thing I know about people, they will always take the easy path, well, most of them will.
"I can even assign an Eminent Domain project over to a non-governmental third party or corporation. Then they can handle the development. In the case of Hooperman's Bakery, one of the creme de la creme of my constituency brought the project to my attention.
"My largest campaign contributor is growing a chain of what he calls a 'super-marketplace'. The concept consolidates the products of complimentary food retailers like a dry-goods grocer, a produce vendor, a butcher and even a baker, all under one roof. He's been identifying prime locations across the city and I'm using the power of the government to help clear the way for his enterprise."
The Senator scans the street scene as he thinks. "This area is run down, but there are a lot of people living here, and they need to eat. Although by the looks of some them, not too much. I better make a note that sales may not be as good as expected at first, but in the long run everyone wins. We, behind the deal, will make a handsome profit, and these dirty hungry people will get some nice food. The owner of the bakery building is on board. Now we just have to explain things to his tenant, Mr Hooperman. I'm sure the Gooch is doing that right now. He understands how to talk to animals.
"If things happen to get sticky, or that ungrateful old Jew comes up with the money to fight back, we'll get him in front of an eminent judge who understands the purpose of eminent domain and they'll stick him in jail. The laws were made to keep people like him in line.
"If he knows what's good for him, he'll do what he's told."
***
"Ray!"
Mrs. Carney's shrill cry awoke Ray from contemplation. He looks over his shoulder and is surprised to see how far he has drifted from his home. She yells again, "Ray, the police aren't coming!"
Everyone on the street hears the message. As his eyes jump from neighbor to neighbor they echo the consternation he feels. Up ahead he can see the two bakery sentries giggling. Ray thinks, "I guess we are on our own."
SKREEEEETCH!
Suddenly, a mysterious black car makes a wide, high-speed turn around the corner of Hooperman's Store. It has a streamlined grace, and bolts with the power of a panther running down prey.
A-LAAAWNK!
An ominous horn bellows a warning. The witnesses standing in the street jump to the sidewalk clearing a path for the massive black and chrome bullet. The parked Packard is directly in its path.
KA-BASH!
They collide nearly head-on. Steel crimps, glass shatters and tires screech. The Packard's front chrome bumper cracks from the frame and thrown high into the air. The heavy sedan is sent spinning backward as the four-wheeled assailant forces its way through.
The Sedan-Limousine bounces and rocks to a halt as the airborne bumper clangs to the ground. The shaken chauffer glances in the splintered reflection in the rearview mirror. He sees his own bloody runny nostrils, the face of the Senator screaming for him to escape, and out the back window, the big black car spinning on a cloud of smoking tires, turning for another attack!
He fumbles with the keys and choke. To his relief, the engine turns over, but its normally confident hum is stricken with uncharacteristic clinks and clanks. He forces the car into gear and floors it. The large vehicle is at an awkward angle, so it rolls up over the curb onto the sidewalk before swerving back into the street, where it crosses the path of the big black car once again.
KA-BAMM!
The De Luxe is scooped up by the long sloping pitch of the attacking car's hood and tossed into the air. It floats for a moment and the passengers experience weightlessness before they come crashing back down. The decimated sedan lands on its driver's side, smack-dab in front of the mysterious car. All 9 windows of the Limousine shatter, including the partition inside.
KA-BANG!
The heavy vehicles collide again, this time nose to undercarriage. Sparks light the brick road as the capsized Packard skids over shredded metal parts and shards of broken glass, before grinding to a halt. The mysterious car stops too. Miraculously, it stands unscathed.
The dazed chauffeur wobbles up out through the passenger window, which is now on top. He sloppily draws a slippery revolver, nearly dropping it twice. A roof-hatch opens on the big black car and in one swift motion, a black-hooded woman in goggles pops up with a strange gun drawn. She fires twice.
Pffft! Pffft!
The chauffeur feels something sting his cheek and neck before blacking out.
A statuesque woman climbs out onto the roof of the streamlined car. A brown leather holster hangs in her crotch. She is clad in black equestrian boots, matching driving gloves and hood and tunic that hide her breasts. All the fashion accessories are connected by the black-stripes of her bodysuit that outlines the slender curves of her supple form.
THUMP-CLUMP!
She leaps over to the tipped car then straddles the window of the rear door. Aiming her strange gun between her feet, she discovers the pinstriped passenger squeezing out though the back window. She leans over the back of the car as he wiggles out, but before he could escape she fires once more.
Pffft!
The target goes limp and collapses in the street.
BRAKKA-BRAKKA-BRAKKA-BRAKKA!
Tommy guns roar as they fire wildly at the driver. A hail of bullets rips across the mysterious woman's back. She twists and tumbles from the car-top vantage point. Stray bullets penetrate the crowd causing people to hit-the-deck or run for shelter.
The bullets should have ripped the masked woman in half but they couldn't pierce the secret metal and fabric weave of her thick uniform. The impact hurts like hell, and there would be bruises and numbing, but she is still alive.
The mysterious driver takes shelter behind the wrecked cars. Peering through the ripped metal, she monitors the lackeys in front of her. Behind her, the remaining witnesses huddle behind the minimal shelter of mailboxes, trashcans and stairs. Luckily there are no bodies, yet.
Returning her view to the Gooch's henchmen, she can see them planning something. She sights her strange gun through the wreckage but the gunmen spot the movement and fire first.
BRAKKA-BRAKKA-BRAKKA-BRAKKA!
PING CLINK PLINK ZING
She recoils as the bullets shower the car in sparks. Under the cover of fire, one of the shooters stalks along a path angling toward her.
BRAKKA-BRAKKA-BRAKKA-BRAKKA!
CLINK CLINK PLINK ZING PING
If he kept on his course he would outflank her cover, and the people behind her would be in the line of fire. Pandora Driver knows she has to act quickly.
Getting back to her feet, she takes 3 deep breaths then buries the unprotected part of her face in the bend of her left arm. She zigs out from behind the flipped Packard and zags back in front of both cars keeping them between the citizens of Colfax Street and the gunmen.
BRAKKA-BRAKKA-BRAKKA-BRAKKA!
They concentrate their fire on her. Bullets pummel her body as she runs right at them. The pain grows worse as she closes the distance. She guess-fires back between rapid blinks.
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
Luckily, her dart-shards find the targets. The two assailants go limp and collapse in tandem.
The masked woman asks the crowd, "WHERE'S THE GOOCH!"
Ray quickly points to Hooperman's and responds, "HE'S IN THE BAKERY."
An ample charge of adrenaline coursing through her heart propels her toward the bakery, but she takes a last minute turn into the alley.
***
Back inside the bakery, the Gooch is frustrated.
Between yelling at Mr Hooperman and keeping track of the hostages, the Gooch isn't exactly sure what was happening outside. He had heard what sounded like an accident. He knew his goons were shooting at something. The piles of bread displayed in the window and patchwork of sales signs didn't help either. The view looking out is as obstructed as looking in, but he chooses not to tear them down since they mask his activities inside as well.
He knows his men have left their positions at the door and he is waiting for them to report. He thinks, "It only sounded like two guns firing. It couldn't be the cops. Maybe they had to mow-down agitators. It wouldn't have been the first time."
The Gooch stomps to the windows and peers through a gap between signs. "The Cord is ok. It's parked where I left it."
Across the room from him, a 9-year-old boy, with a large head, sits silently on a tall stool in front of the display counter. He’s wearing short-pants and has a grouch-bag around his neck. It contains a few toy soldiers made of lead. Young Herschel is new to America and he's seen many unusual things since arriving from Poland. He doesn’t understand why the bad man came into Mr Hooperman's store or what he wants, but it appears there are bad men no matter where he lives.
From his raised seat he could see behind the counter, into the kitchen and to the back door of the building. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the door slowly open and close by some unseen force. Moments later, a hanging apron moves as if brushed by a ghost. Then, like a magic trick, a head slowly rises from the counter, stopping at goggle level. The large green lenses and smooth black head had an insect-like appearance. They stare right at the boy for 5 seconds. Then the head tilts to reveal more human looking features. A gloved finger covers purple lips that were so dark they seem black. She mimes a silent "shhhhh" then slowly disappears down as the Gooch abandons his post at the window. He returns to Mr Hooperman's side.
Since the baking ovens were left on, the room has become hotter over time. The Gooch sets his revolver down on the counter for a second to remove his suit jacket. His task is interrupted as he makes eye contact with young Herschel. He sits silently, but points to a corner in the front of the shop. The Gooch looks, but the space appears empty. The boy stops pointing and smiles. The Gooch mutters, "Crazy kid."
He reaches back for his gun, but it was gone. He turns just in time to see the sole of a black equestrian boot strike him squarely in the face. It is attached to a long slender leg that attacks with all the force it can muster as Pandora Driver vaults over the counter at him.
CHUNK!
He sees stars, then crashes into a loaded bread cart, shattering it.
CRUNCH!
In anguish Mr Hooperman gasps. "That cart cost 5 dollars!"
The masked woman winces and says, "Sorry" in a tiny voice. She didn't want to break any of his stuff.
The Gooch collects himself and launches back at her. As they scuffle it becomes difficult for the masked woman to defend herself while protecting Mr Hooperman's property. She spends more time dodging and not enough time striking. The shop is too confining. Between the glass counters, shelves, food, and the frightened counter girls scurrying back and forth, she's fighting with too many handicaps. There aren’t even enough witnesses to accomplish her ulterior goal.
The Gooch throws himself at her again. She dodges. His momentum would carry him through the massive display window if she doesn’t stop him.
Mr Hooperman screams, "No, not the window, that cost 48 dollars!"
She digs her heels into the floor and grapples his leg, stopping him short. He falls to the ground and his weight pulls her on top of him.
He tries to grab her as they roll on the floor, but she manages to snake away. In the process, she tugs and traps his hands. She uses the leverage of his own body to force him back on his feet.
The Gooch is undoubtedly stronger than her. She holds him in what should have been a painful wristlock with his arm twisted high behind his back, but it doesn’t seem to hurt him. She struggles to maintain control of him, and tries to point him at the front door.
She yells out to young Herschel, "Kid. Get the door!"
The boy just watches without moving.
Mr Hooperman cries frantically. "Herschel, ofn der arayn tir!"
The boy leaps into action and swings the front door wide open. Above the door a silver bell rings a friendly jingle as the Gooch is ejected.
Ting-a-ling-a-ling.
The crowd gasps as he stumbles out onto the street before rolling back to his feet. His opponent exits to greet him in the open air of this city block coliseum. The diminutive woman with the svelte figure and ferocity of a jungle cat circles her much larger prey.
In the crowd, Ray overhears someone say, "It's like Daisy vs Goliath."
The Gooch edges around an invisible circle loosening up his shoulders and rolling his clenched fists in the air. For the first time, he gets a good look at the aftermath of the mysterious driver's handy work. He spots his teammates lying on the ground. They look dead, but he can always hire more.
He asks with a smile, "A little girl like you did all this damage?"
Empty goggles gaze back as she circles opposite him.
He scans the harrowed faces of the crowd. He knows they won't be a threat. And he knows no matter what crimes they witness here today, he'll get away with it. The laws were in place to punish the dregs of Citadel City, not the upper echelon. He just has to flatten this little striped bitch, then he'd be done for the day.
A giggle escapes from his granite jaw. "You surprised me back in there, but I'm ready for you now."
She circles silently.
He asks, "Who the fuck are you anyway?"
She responds coldly, "I'm the chaos bringer."
He shrugs and smiles mockingly. "What the hell is that suppose to mean?"
She promises, "You're about to find out."
He chuckles and says, "Ha ha. Ok toots, let's make this quick. Say good night Gracie."
He steps into her and fires a heavy fist at her head. She spins at him simultaneously, attacking unlike anything he'd ever seen. She swoops in under his punch striking his elbow with her open palm as it passes over her. It's a solid hit but it doesn't seem to hurt him. He nearly loses track of her. His meaty body is strong but relatively slow. He swings again. She dodges and twirls, slinging back a long kick to the side of his head. He's unfazed.
He smiles, then swings and misses.
She dances around him sending a series of quick attacks, but with no effect. Each blow is fiercer than the last, or connects exploring for a vulnerable area.
He swings again. She grabs the limb using it to pull them together to amplify the impact of her blow. It is the hardest hit yet but it appears feeble. She can’t hide the surprise on her face as she jumps back out of reach.
The Gooch laughs, "Haw haw, not working huh? The doctors told me I have a high pain threshold."
Part of her plan today included beating the Gooch into submission to inspire the crowd, but it doesn't look like that is going to work now. She feels the weight of her holstered dark-gun as it bounces at her hip.
He swings a near miss.
The Gooch smiles. "Once, when I was a kid, my uncle broke my arm. He was giving me an Indian burn at the dinner table, trying to make me eat something, and it just popped. I didn't even feel it. I didn't even cry. I just stared at him to prove to him I could take whatever he could dish out."
He adds. "I think he was more scared than I was… Now he's dead."
The adult version of that arm swings at her again. It has grown into a huge arm. Now, massive muscles power it. All those muscles need to be fed by oxygen.
She says, "Thanks for the tip."
The mysterious driver moves in closer to him. She is well within his reach, and at this range, his attacks come quicker.
She speaks as she parries. "It's surprising how fragile the human body is, regardless of its size."
He swings at her and she arches back all the way to the ground, plants her hand on the street bricks then donkey kicks a heel into his chin. His head snaps back opening up his torso.
"If just one vital system is disrupted…"
She pinwheels up to strike him with a two-palmed attack to the solar plexus. She can smell the bacon on his breath as all the air from lungs explodes out, along with a stream of partially digested egg yokes and toast.
"…The whole machine breaks down."
His arms swing in over her. She blocks before hooking them with her hands. As he draws in a big breath, she kicks the same spot again. She pulls him into the kicks, to increase the force. The rest of his breakfast sprays her.
"You could be the biggest monster in the world, but without a constant supply of tiny little o2…"
Each time he tries to inhale she strike the same spot, again and again like a horizontal, heel pile driver. Spittle dangles form his mouth as he staggers off balance.
"…You're just dead weight…"
He rises protecting his stomach with his arm.
"…If I go too far, you're dead."
She grabs his arm and yanks it away. He resists the force, trying to pull it back. She lets it go and he strikes himself hard in the gut. Then she kicks the limb in even deeper.
"If I go too little, I could lose…"
As he fumbles past her, she jump-kicks him in the back of the head sending him to the ground.
"…But if I play it just right, you'll taste defeat…"
The crowd gasps as the Gooch hits the street bricks, mouth first.
She jumps in the air and comes down hard on his back, not hard enough to break any ribs, but hard enough to knock his breath back out.
"…Say uncle."
His muscles burn as he lies in the street. A tiny voice devoid of air leaks out of him. "Uncle."
She steps off in him and he curls into a ball as his lungs wheeze.
With her chest pumping, and nostrils flaring, she glares over the fallen body of the Gooch, silently daring him to get back up. The fight's gone from him. She removes her strange gun from its holster. Using her foot she tilts his head down to reveal the meaty part of his thick neck then aims and fires.
Pffft!
He blacks out.
The crowd stands in silence as she grabs fistfuls of fabric from both of the Gooch's shoulders then drags his heavy lifeless body to her car. She opens the heavy passenger-side door and struggles with his weight as she clumsily stuffs him inside. One-by-one she repeats her collection process with the Gooch's lackeys, leaving the fallen Senator and chauffeur. She packs her passengers in with a slam of the door.
The masked woman climbs back up onto the roof of her car and stands proudly. She scans the crowd reading the mix of expressions. She thinks for a moment before yelling out, "THE ONLY REASON YOU DON'T HAVE POWER, IS BECAUSE YOU BELIEVE YOU HAVE NO POWER."
The criticism struck a raw nerve in Ray. Feeling insulted he shouts back, "THAT'S EASY FOR YOU TO SAY. YOU'VE GOT THAT CAR, AND THAT WEIRD GUN… AND APPARENTLY YOU'RE BULLETPROOF."
She listens with a nod then adds, "I UNDERSTAND THAT, BUT WE CAN WORK AS A TEAM."
She opens her arms presenting herself and her arsenal. "MY METHOD ISN'T THE ONLY WAY TO FIGHT BACK! COLLECTIVELY YOU HAVE A WEAPON FAR GREATER THEN ANY I WIELD ALONE."
She points an accusatory finger at the unconscious politician who remains slumped in the street. "DO YOU SEE THIS MAN? I REALLY HATE GUYS LIKE THIS. AND I BELIEVE YOU WILL TOO, ONCE YOU FIND OUT WHAT HE'S BEEN UP TO. SENATOR GRAYMOOR IS SUPPOSED TO BE OUR REPRESENTATIVE BUT HE ONLY WORKS AGAINST US. HE'S UP FOR REELECTION. VOTE TO DEFEND YOURSELF."
Another voice yells out, "I THOUGHT YOU KILLED HIM."
She responds, "NO. HE'LL JUST BE ASLEEP FOR SOMETIME."
The crowd murmurs.
The driver continues in an even pace. "SPREAD THE WORD OF ALL YOU'VE WITNESSED HERE TODAY. IF WE WORK TOGETHER, WE CAN ELIMINATE HIS KIND.
"REMEMBER, THE TRUTH IS THEIR ACHILLES HEEL."
She points to the bodies loaded inside her car.
"I'LL TAKE CARE OF THE REST OF THESE MONSTERS. THEY WON'T BE ABLE TO TAKE ANYTHING FROM YOU EVER AGAIN‚ I PROMISE."
Dropping to the driver's seat, she vanishes into the darkness of the roof hatch as the lid slams shut. The engine roars to life and the mysterious black car backs away from the wreckage of the Limousine then zooms away. It makes a wide turn around the corner of Hooperman's Bakery before disappearing into the concrete canyons of Citadel City.
The crowd goes wild.
A shaken Mr. Hooperman enters the celebration in front of his store and soon finds himself next to Ray Walker. He asks his frequent customer, "What are we going to tell people about what happened here today?"
Ray announces through a beaming smile, "We're gonna' tell the truth."
***
Later, after the festivities die down, the wreckage wrought by the mysterious driver was cleared from Colfax Street. Ray and four other men pushed the dark-red Cord 810 to the curb and parked it. It was one of the few cars on the street and it stood out from the rest. Overtime, it would become something of a monument. No one ever came to reclaim it.
Eventually Senator Graymoor awoke and staggered his way home to cautiously complete his final term in office. He would lose the upcoming election by a landslide.
Mr. Hooperman's bakery remained open and its proprietor continued to help those in need until the day he died. He was a giver and the world was a better place while he was in it.
EPILOGUE
The Gooch snaps awake with a start. Although his eyes are open, he can’t get his bearings in the near pitch-black space. The air is musty and he is seated on an uneven earthen floor. Cautiously, he scooches back on his ass until he bumps a brick wall. Probing the stone with his arms he realizes he is in a room about the size of a closet. In the distance he can hear faint voices chanting rhythmically.
"2 of clubs, 8 of clubs, 9 of clubs, 4 of clubs, your trick. You lead. Ace of diamonds, 10 of diamonds, 3 of diamonds, 5 of diamonds, your trick. You lead. Queen of clubs, King of clubs, 4 of hearts. Wait. Are you sure you don’t have any more clubs? You're positive? Ok, hearts are broken."
The Gooch realizes the words were drifting into his room from above. Dim flickering lights outside his locker reveal a small barred window. The luminance reminds him of the Carton automatic lighter in his pants pocket. He shifts to his knees, fishes it out, then click-lights it.
A heavy metal door stands before him. The lonely flame reveals words scrawled into its surface…
"Abandon all hope ye who enter."
THE END
***
"Pandora Driver: Blind Luck" is featured in the "ePulp Sampler Vol. 1", along with 4 other action packed retro-adventures. The "ePulp Sampler" is currently available on your favorite eBookstores. Download your free copy before it’s too late!
Copyright© 2013 John Picha. All Rights Reserved.