Superheroes Anonymous: A Modern-day Fantasy, Year Two

By Jeremy Bursey

Jimmy Knightly, now a sidekick to a well-respected Risen Ordinary, undergoes his year of superhero training. His self-centered nature sends him off-course, of course, and his rebelliousness puts his mentor, and his team, in jeopardy. But with rumors surfacing of an old murderous nemesis coming to town to finish what he started, Jimmy will do anything to keep evil well at bay. If he can.

Fresh off his victory at Cannonball City Hall, Jimmy has reluctantly agreed to join the elusive team of superheroes called the Risen Ordinaries. He still has no idea what he’s doing here on this island of freaks. After all, his heart belongs to California, and he wants to return to the championship tennis circuit as soon as possible. But he knows he cannot go back, not yet. The Spotless Cowboy is still out there looking to murder him. And even though Jimmy is much better equipped to confront him now, there’s still that nagging question: Can he actually defeat him?

What’s worse is that Jimmy now knows two things that keeps him unsettled at night: 1. The Cowboy knows how to find New Switzerland, and 2. He knows Jimmy has most likely come here. What Jimmy doesn’t know is when or if the Cowboy will make his appearance. So, even though he trains as a sidekick for a respected New Swiss superhero, Jimmy is constantly looking over his shoulder for sign of his tormentor’s presence and is constantly distracted by the possibility that every step he takes in the open is his last. He knows he cannot hide anymore, but at least he takes comfort in knowing that he can mask himself under his new crime-fighter identity and increase his odds of keeping himself out of the crosshairs.

Or so, that is until a new villain attempts to unmask all heroes and vigilantes, including Jimmy, and expose their true identities to their friends and family, to the entire nation, and, of course, to their enemies. If he cannot hide under any identity, then he cannot hide, and this causes Jimmy more trouble than he can stand. With superhero politics, a troubled relationship with his neighbor, Julie, and more rebellion than he can shake a fleet of twenty cats at, Jimmy most definitely has a crazy sophomore year in New Switzerland ahead of him.

Please Note: This super-long "Annual Edition" consists of the abridged versions of two consecutive (not-yet-individually-released) "A Modern-day Fantasy" novels. It is arranged to flow seamlessly as a single volume taking up one year of Jimmy Knightly's heroic adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremy Bursey
• Release date: May 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311784728

Jeremy Bursey

Jeremy Bursey is the author of many short stories, essays, and poems, along with a modest number of novels and screenplays, each covering topics and genres that differ from what he had written previously. He hopes to bring many of these into the ebook generation over the course of the next few years. He holds a bachelor’s degree in English from the University of Central Florida and currently works at a local college as a writing tutor. He appreciates feedback for anything he offers to the public.

Book preview

Superheroes Anonymous:

A Modern-day Fantasy, Year Two

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Jeremy Bursey

Copyright © 2016 by Jeremy Bursey

All rights reserved.

zippywings.wordpress.com

Smashwords Edition

E-book edition: 1.1

ISBN: 9781311784728

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this text may be reproduced in any other work without giving credit to the author. No part of this text may be used for commercial purposes, except by reviewers or critics, without the author’s permission. The complete text is intended for personal use only and may not be used for commercial purposes, or duplicated in any other form for purposes other than personal, noncommercial use, or posted to any other site without the author’s permission.

Contents

Title

Copyright Information

Edition Notes

Introduction

Part One: Errand Boy

Chapter 1: Some Unpronounceable Martial Art Involving Spoons

Chapter 2: The Fisherman’s Request

Chapter 3: Secret of the Tropica Hardcore

Chapter 4: Over the Shoulder

Chapter 5: Gone

Chapter 6: Saving a Legend

Chapter 7: The Hitcher and the Strangler

Chapter 8: Mailman in White Spandex

Chapter 9: Medical Breakout

Chapter 10: Interrogation

Chapter 11: Detour

Part Two: Coastal Run

Chapter 12: Special Assignment

Chapter 13: The Second Treasure

Chapter 14: Scrambled Clues

Chapter 15: The House on the Cliff

Chapter 16: Frisbee

Chapter 17: Coastal Run Cave

Chapter 18: The Stowaway

Chapter 19: The Polynesian King

Chapter 20: The Seeing Eye

Part Three: Captivity

Chapter 21: Invading a Squatter Village

Chapter 22: Life on the Farm

Chapter 23: A Letter in Motion

Chapter 24: Negotiation

Chapter 25: Mayor Simmons’s Mailbox

Chapter 26: The Rebellion of Protester Harry

Chapter 27: The Survivor

Part Four: A Sidekick’s Life

Chapter 28: Call to Action

Chapter 29: Recruitment Day

Chapter 30: Haunts of Primex

Chapter 31: Hot Date

Chapter 32: Alter Celebrity

Chapter 33: Superheroes Anonymous

Chapter 34: Morning Star

Part Five: Hunters

Chapter 35: Crash

Chapter 36: Turquoise Seashells

Chapter 37: Masks and Trespass

Chapter 38: Rogue Ego

Chapter 39: Unveiled

Part Six: Hush

Chapter 40: Pulverized

Chapter 41: Heroic Standoff

Chapter 42: The Story of Bullets

Chapter 43: Graduation

Chapter 44: The Crossroad

A Modern-day Fantasy Series Information

Acknowledgments

Other Books

For Reviewers

Join My Mailing List

Author’s Note

E-book Version

About the Author

Contact and Questions

Coming Soon

Edition Notes

Here is the list of changes to Superheroes Anonymous: A Modern-day Fantasy, Year Two since its initial publication in May 2016:

1.1: August 2019: Formatting update. Character name change (new character name: Trick Freak).

Introduction

________

Thank you for downloading Superheroes Anonymous: A Modern-day Fantasy, Year Two. If you’re reading this, then the story of Jimmy Knightly and the Risen Ordinaries, as told in Cannonball City: A Modern-day Fantasy, Year One, must have gotten you by the throat (or arms, or legs, or some other body part), and you have to find out what Year Two has in store for them. And if that describes you, and this is not just some morbid curiosity about what a sequel to a book you haven’t read has to offer, then I want to thank you officially for coming back for more. You’re a rock star. And, if you are reading this out of sequence, well, thanks to you, too! (And you should really consider reading the first book at some point.)

So, what can you expect from the sequel to the epic journey of a tennis star turned superhero as presented in Year One? Well, more adventure, suspense, and ridiculous laughter, of course. This book is a direct continuation of the last one, so if you are hoping for a story that answers many of the questions that the last book had left you with, then you’ve come to the right place. And, yes, you sort of have to come here next, as this is a direct sequel to Year One, and skipping ahead to Year Three, which I haven’t compiled yet as of this writing, would just be silly. But, if you’re reading this, then you obviously feel the same. Glad we’re on the same page.

Just as I did with Cannonball City: A Modern-day Fantasy, Year One, this book is actually the abridged version of not one but two novel-length stories (the first one was actually the combination of three novels, but you should already know that if you’ve read it prior to getting this). This means that you are going to experience more than one rise and fall of action throughout the course of the book, and you’ll encounter multiple story points while marching ahead toward the closing of a primary story that covers the entire year of Jimmy Knightly’s life. If you’ve managed to finish reading the gigantic volume known as Cannonball City: A Modern-day Fantasy, Year One, then you already know what to expect, so prepare to be entertained. And if you still don’t know what I’m talking about, then you’re probably skipping ahead, and you should consider going back and starting at the beginning. Just remember that the first book is also very long, so plan accordingly. Fortunately, it’s summer now (well, late spring), and beach reading is all the rage this time of year. So, you’ll have time to catch up.

And in case it isn’t clear (either for this book, or the previous one), this Annual Edition is written as one complete (abridged) story that covers a year in the protagonist’s life, but in a format that crosses multiple novels. If you’re reading this (or the first one), and you feel it’s too long, just remember that you’re reading two novels in one (three, in the case of the first edition). If having so much to read in a single location is too overwhelming for you, then you may want to come back when I release the single-novel versions of A Modern-day Fantasy sometime in the near future. They’ll be smaller.

So, with that, I hope you enjoy the continuing adventure of Jimmy Knightly and the madness that is his life as a superhero’s sidekick.

Part One

________

Errand Boy

Chapter 1

________

Some Unpronounceable Martial Art Involving Spoons

It was an honor to learn these special moves from Plummet Man, a member of the superhero elite, and Jimmy knew it, but he still wanted to punch his mentor in the mouth. Ever since the Cannonball City Transport had dumped him in front of the duck pond at Cannonball City Central Park’s main entrance, he was forced into this training mode that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted, and taking instructions he neither understood nor could put to relevance seemed like an utter waste of time. But the Risen Ordinaries, the small group of men and women who monitored crime in the city and had the skills to counteract them, had pestered him to join their ranks, due to his sudden physiological transformation during a crisis at the Nectarine Institute of Research, and he could only assume their belief in him was sound. But they failed to realize that he was just a tennis star who was better at sports than he was at crime-fighting. A part of that reason, he assumed, was due to him never telling them about his identity as Jimmy Knightly, tennis star in hiding. The other reason, of course, was that they had never bothered to ask.

Like a good student, he still resigned himself to listening, to watching, to pretending to follow the mad actions displayed by his teacher before him. But, like a typical student, he dreamed of being anywhere else, doing anything else. Plummet Man’s intentions were certainly noble—giving this security risk a chance at representing a nation of science-built superheroes was the act of a saint—but they were also misguided. Jimmy had a lucky break when he defeated those powerhouse titans of destruction, Cloak Combustion and Bald Hairypit, in the suffocating inferno enveloping city hall. Heroism couldn’t have maintained the same consistency that professional sports had provided him. At some point, he was destined to let someone down, and given the nature of the superhero-sidekick relationship (what the Risen Ordinaries refer to as a crime-fighting apprenticeship), that person was likely Plummet Man.

Punching him in the mouth would be easier. The disappointment would come as less of a surprise, and Jimmy would still have the satisfaction of relieving himself of the stress that his pudgy mentor was inflicting on him.

Come on, I know you can do this, Plummet Man said, again, for the tenth time in as many minutes. I believe in you.

So misguided. Jimmy had no idea how to respond.

This wasn’t the first time he had learned the basics, but it was the first time he was willing to admit to having no comprehension about what he had learned. Maybe the instructor was so gifted that the art seemed effortless, and maybe some recessive part of his brain tricked him into believing that he had understood all of it. But, as he stared at the three spoons in his left fist, staring at his warped yet handsome reflection in their chrome finishes, he realized he had no clue.

You’re not clearing your mind, the instructor said, as he appeared in triplicate over Jimmy’s shoulder in the spoons’ reflections.

My mind is always clear, Jimmy said. I just don’t get the point.

You’re not supposed to get the point. The point is that it can save your life.

His mind actually wasn’t clear, and he had been thinking about it for the last half hour. Staring at utensils was turning him cross-eyed, and he felt the strain in his neck building toward his forehead as he progressively drifted away from the lesson. Learning the tricks of these spoons was supposed to save his life one day, and it was pissing him off that he couldn’t comprehend how. He had spent his life learning how spoons are used for one purpose only: to eat soups and cereals; two if he counted stirring cream and sugar into his coffee. The idea that they had a third purpose, to humiliate evil and save his life, blew his mind, and his mind was not one that could stand getting blown.

You’re gonna have to explain it to me again like I’m an eight-year-old.

The man in the purple spandex circled to Jimmy’s front and looked him in the sunglasses. It was equally hard to see his eyes, for they were masked under a translucent piece of plastic film, but there was just enough light penetrating the surface to see the whites staring back. They were familiar, but Jimmy still didn’t know how.

In the field, you won’t have time to remember the details. In the field, you’ll just have to rely on your muscle memory. There is nothing to get. Clear your mind. Then use the spoons.

Jimmy closed his eyes, doing his best to think about nothing. A few supermodels entered his thoughts instead, but he let them go quickly. They had all turned him down for dates in his previous life. Not worth the thought. He started thinking about coffee after that—he was in a hurry to leave the house this morning and didn’t have time to make it. Plummet Man, his instructor, had told him they had a lot of work to do and would have to skip the morning diner visit until later. Coffee might’ve stimulated his brain, which he was sure he needed now, but that might’ve been contrary to the actual lesson he needed to follow, which was to clear his mind. It was all so confusing. How anyone could learn this stuff was beyond him.

Use the spoons, Plummet Man said.

Without giving it any thought, Jimmy waved the spoons over his head. Then, when nothing happened, he took the middle spoon into his right hand and shoved it into his mouth. When he opened his eyes, he could see the spoon’s stem jutting out past his nose, and a slight frown on Plummet Man’s face—the part of his face that Jimmy could see—beyond that.

Maybe you need another demonstration? he asked.

Jimmy pulled the spoon out of his mouth, wiped it off on his sleeve, and placed it back in the group. Then he passed all three back to Plummet Man.

I’m telling you. None of this makes sense to me, and that’s the problem.

When I showed this to you back in November, you said you understood.

And you believed me?

Plummet Man gave no response. He just took the spoons in his right hand and fanned them out in Y-formation.

Jimmy leaned against the trashcan beside the park bench as he watched his mentor slowly go through the steps again. Even as the visual reminder played before him, he couldn’t grasp the fundamental point. Plummet Man was waving the spoons around, almost like spinning fan blades, so effortlessly that Jimmy thought years had gone into this weird spoon art training, but he didn’t know why he was spinning them, and that, Jimmy realized, was the main problem.

Pretend you’re teaching me calculus, he said, though I barely passed algebra.

Plummet Man halted the improvised propeller and all three spoons stopped in a downward angle like a set of dull claws poised to dig some earth. He snatched his whole hand out of sight, putting it and the spoons behind his back.

Are you saying you need me to explain the steps? he asked.

Making me watch you is doing nothing for me.

When Plummet Man pulled his hand back into sight, the spoons were missing.

Why can’t you just mimic what I do?

Jimmy shrugged.

Doesn’t work that way for me.

But, you want to be a Risen Ordinary, right?

Well, not really, but you people keep trying to suck me in, so the best way to shut you up is to agree to your terms. Not sure what point you’re making, though.

Hero or not, sometimes it was important just to be honest, Jimmy thought.

While Jimmy was talking, he had missed Plummet Man reproducing the spoons in his other hand. It was like witnessing a magician at work, a magician who refused to share his secrets but expected an exact replica of his presentation.

"Sometimes you have to act on your feet. Sometimes the situation does not allow you to draw on experience. Half our job as Risen Ordinaries is to improvise reaction to unique situations. That’s the secret to Ingurumen infantilismoa konbinazioa borroka, or Envirospasticum, as we call it. If you can’t improvise, you risk killing yourself and your team."

Jimmy considered Plummet Man’s words. Still had no idea what any of them meant. But somewhere in the nonsense, he understood the word improvise.

"So, what you’re saying is, it doesn’t matter what I do with the spoons. What matters is that I do something with the spoons."

Plummet Man passed the spoons back to Jimmy. Without giving it additional thought, Jimmy tossed one spoon in the air and tried to catch it by clamping the others together as it fell back toward him. The left spoon knocked the falling spoon out of trajectory, launching it over the right spoon as it passed harmlessly over the left. He watched the rogue spoon fly into an ant pile about eight feet away.

He glanced back at Plummet Man and smiled.

How was that? he asked.

Needs work, said Plummet Man. Not sure how that move is going to save your life.

Jimmy grinned, nodded. Then he cocked back his elbow in preparation to strike his mentor in the face. Plummet Man, ever his superior, had already anticipated the move and kicked him in the stomach. Jimmy toppled backward onto the sand, nearly rolling into the duck pond.

I appreciate your alternative mode of improvisation, Plummet Man said, but you must also anticipate defense and counterattacks before you throw a punch. It also helps if you don’t telegraph your moves. Learn to punch without flinching first. Might also save your life.

Jimmy flipped to his belly and staggered to his feet. Why anyone believed he would make a fine superhero was beyond him. He was terrible at even following directions.

Not to mention, said Plummet Man, it might save my life. So, get this right, pal. Let’s try your spoon technique again.

***

It had been an exhausting experience working out with Plummet Man, but Jimmy was never one to back down from exercise, and ever since his ankle had healed from last year’s injury at the Australian Open, he had been gradually trimming down the excess body fat he had acquired from weeks of inactivity and months of burger binging. He still hadn’t reached his target weight—he was hooked on that damn Hamburger Supreme at the restaurant in the Hotel Primex—but he was getting there. The trouble was that his workouts with superheroes had left him too exhausted to resist the urge.

It wasn’t like this whenever he had trained for a Grand Slam match. In those days he had personal trainers who told him what to eat, told him how to exercise, and told him to hold still as they shot him full of the best medicines to overcome the pain. They essentially took the pressure away from him thinking for himself. He didn’t have that now. Here in the lonely nation of New Switzerland, home to the Western Hemisphere’s premiere expatriates, he had to make decisions for himself, and those decisions were the ingredients that determined whether he could keep up with these superhuman crime-fighters. Training to defeat rival tennis stars had never left him with so much performance anxiety, and completing a session (or even a match) had never left him feeling so physically drained at the end of the day.

And it was for that reason that, on this late afternoon at the end of February, Jimmy Knightly, former tennis star and current superhero-in-training, who had decided for himself to crash on his living room couch the moment he had gotten home from his day with Plummet Man, was not ready for the surprise that was waiting at his front door. When he opened it, heart aflutter because he was somehow expecting his neighbor and long-term crush, Julie Alundruss, to be standing on the other side, he felt his heart reverse direction and crash into his sternum because the person standing on the other side was not Julie but a man who should have been playing a police chief role in some ridiculous action film over three thousand miles away.

It was on that visit that Edward Sewaller, Jimmy’s best friend since childhood, had revealed a shocking likelihood that neither had believed was possible: Jimmy’s murderous stalker, the Spotless Cowboy, was still alive and likely heading for New Switzerland to finish the deal he couldn’t close with Jimmy back in Los Angeles.

The Spotless Cowboy was an FBI nightmare, if Jimmy could recall, not just elusive, but decked in trace-eliminating hardware that had no known origin, and thus, no known seller, and thus no known way to track it to a bank account or known identity. Jimmy had known only the basics of this mysterious device that the Spotless Cowboy had used as outerwear, enough certainly to keep him afraid. It had helped him reach an impossible aiming and firing speed that allowed him to mow down an entire police squad in the lobby of the orthopedists’ office where Jimmy had tended to his ankle injury. And for a guy who had to cross off names from his list by killing them with gunfire, the thought of him coming to eliminate Jimmy from the list left him feeling a little jumpy.

So, the rumors are true? Jimmy asked. Special Agent Greenhorn didn’t kill him on my front lawn that day?

No one shared the reports on what really happened, Ed said, as he leaned forward to grab a magazine off of Jimmy’s coffee table. The buzz around town, if my sources can be trusted, is that he killed a neighborhood haunt and switched his clothes to escape.

Jimmy shook his head.

Sometimes I wonder how anyone could elude the FBI using such ridiculous methods. Aren’t they supposed to be one of the most state-of-the-art detective agencies in the world?

Yeah, but they’ve been having a lot of problems lately. Clearly you’re not watching CNN.

Jimmy glanced at his longtime friend as if he were meeting him for the first time.

Do you not know me? Jimmy asked.

Right. Sensitive spot. Not saying it to speculate, just confirming what I know you didn’t see.

Jimmy had stopped watching any news program a long time ago, thanks to the harassment he had felt from reporters after he had undergone a wardrobe malfunction in France. He had further distrusted them after one of the cycles gave a faulty report that he had been committing adultery with one of his bodyguard’s girlfriends, a woman he couldn’t recall having ever met, a woman he was certain he hadn’t met—though he hadn’t found out about that news story until two years later when he tried hiring that same bodyguard to protect him again. The incidents had left him unknowledgeable about much of the world’s happenings, and incidentally, a happier man. It was the Spotless Cowboy’s disturbance of his personal tranquility that had put him back on edge.

At any rate, the FBI dropped the ball, and now the bastard’s on his way here. Most likely. So, please don’t die.

Jimmy stared across the living room, at his stereo, which was currently silent.

Doesn’t sound like I can make you any promises.

***

Jimmy’s training session the next day was more difficult than usual. Plummet Man wanted to keep teaching him Envirospasticum, and he wanted to do so along the beach to help Jimmy focus better on the trickier techniques, as the city was too busy and the art of using spoons in warfare depended a lot on muscle memory. If Jimmy could concentrate on the movements of the spoons, he could begin to see them even with his eyes closed. If he could mimic those movements, then he could form his automatic actions. As Plummet Man pointed a spoon at the ocean and lunged, then asked Jimmy to model his behavior, Jimmy understood his intention immediately. The idea was certainly sound.

But Jimmy couldn’t concentrate. Even with a technique as simple as lunging, Jimmy wasn’t as focused as he was supposed to be. When he took the spoon in hand and lunged forward, his arm flopped to his side. When he straightened his body and glanced at his mentor, Plummet Man was shaking his head at him.

You told me to teach you like you’re an eight-year-old, and you’re still doing horrible, he said. Are you even trying?

Jimmy shook his head.

No, I can get this.

He tried again. This time he kept his arm straight, but his jutted knee was shaking. When he looked down at it, he noticed he was standing in the hollow between a dune and flattened sand. He stepped backward onto higher ground.

Better? he asked.

Plummet Man shrugged.

I’m honestly wondering if I should save this lesson for later, he said.

He stepped in close and put his hand on the small of Jimmy’s back.

You need to keep this straight, first of all. Try again. If you feel my hand slip away, you’re doing it wrong.

Jimmy tried again. He felt Plummet Man’s hand slip away.

You’re not keeping your back straight. Pretend you’re fencing. You ever watch two fencers square off? They keep it elegant. You need to keep your lunge elegant.

Jimmy stared at him in disbelief. Even though his mentor had no way of seeing his eyes behind his sunglasses, he was still narrowing them.

My lunge with spoons? Needs to be elegant?

It’s about power. If you can control your body, you can control your spoons.

Jimmy cracked a smile. His mentor was bonkers.

You understand that I’m standing in sand, right?

Plummet Man nodded.

Yes, you’re increasing your need for control. Try again.

Jimmy tried again. He was still bending his back too far forward.

Children can do this, Plummet Man said. I can vouch for this because I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Surely you can do this.

Jimmy was about to scream. He knew he could do this, too. He was a sportsman for crying out loud. If anyone could do something so physically easy, he, a professional athlete, could lunge with a spoon on the beach while keeping his freaking back straight.

But when he heard the thunderous crack of a palm trunk snapping about a hundred feet behind him, he pitched too far forward and tumbled into the sand.

Plummet Man reached down and picked him up. Then they both looked in the direction of the noise. A hippie was coming out of a dark cleft in the thick tree line past the highway. He was dragging another hippie out by the hair. The other hippie was grasping at the more dominant hippie’s wrists to pry his hands away, but he was making no progress. By the time the first hippie finally released him, they had reached the highway.

The first guy kicked the other while he was down. Then he returned to the cleft between the trees. The beaten hippie jumped to his feet and chased after the first, but two more hippies were emerging from the darkness, holding the sharp ends of two picket signs at him. The fallen hippie caught the hint and backed off.

Jimmy glanced at Plummet Man.

What are we watching right now? he asked.

Plummet Man shook his head.

No idea. Best we leave it alone. The people around here are known savages. I’d rather not get tangled in their affairs.

The fallen hippie slinked toward the highway. He was limping along as if someone had stubbed his right big toe before driving a two-by-four to his left shin. Jimmy had a momentary flashback of the burden he had felt walking when he had his ankle injury last year.

He’s got a long way to walk in that condition, Jimmy said.

Plummet Man nodded.

Yes, yes he does.

Jimmy took a step toward the highway, but Plummet Man grabbed his biceps and stopped him.

I really don’t think that’s a good idea, he said.

Jimmy shook off his grip.

What do you mean?

I mean, I think you shouldn’t worry about that man. Let him be.

Aren’t we superheroes or something? Jimmy asked.

I am. You’re a sidekick.

Jimmy wrinkled his nose at the idea of being somebody’s sidekick. He still couldn’t get used to the idea.

"Well, don’t crime-fighters help the downtrodden?"

When the situation is right, sure. But this isn’t that time. He’s a grown man, and now he’s alone. He can handle himself.

Jimmy clenched his teeth as he watched the hippie reach the road. The hippie began limping east with his thumb extended. With his other hand, he pried his shirt off his body and waved it around like a tie-dyed flag.

No one’s gonna actually drive through here, though, Jimmy said. Right?

Probably not, no.

Jimmy turned toward his mentor.

We could give him a hand. There’s no way he can make it all the way to Cannonball City walking like that.

Maybe not, but that’s not our problem.

Jimmy felt his stomach tighten. He had spent the better part of the year recovering from his injuries, his fears, and his chronic string of bad luck. Even though his fears continued to peck at his thoughts, and his bad luck was likely the price for residency on the island of New Switzerland, the injuries he had incurred on the tournament tennis court, and again in the heat of battle against a brutish man with unfathomable armpit hair and a cloaked man who shot fire out of his wrists, were mostly healed. And he couldn’t get there without the support of others. Failing to return the favor didn’t settle well with him. He wanted to help this guy out. The Envirospasticum lesson could wait.

I think it should be, he said. Especially if he needs a hand.

He glanced at his mentor for validation. Plummet Man’s smile was flat.

Leave it alone. Stick to your training.

I am sticking to my training. This is training. Look, we’re seeing an active situation where someone needs help. So, let’s give the man some help.

I appreciate your heart, Plummet Man said. But you don’t yet understand the situation.

Neither do you. Isn’t that why we should find out?

Not necessarily.

Jimmy couldn’t believe his mentor would just let a man in need fend for himself in this violent wildland without so much as an escort back to town.

I’m gonna at least ask him if he wants help, Jimmy said. At least then we’ll know who’s right here.

Plummet Man shrugged. Then he gestured Jimmy forward.

Jimmy headed off the dune toward the Coastal Highway, doing his best to ignore his fear of exposure. Hiding his secret terror behind his sense of duty was no easy task, and every shift in shadow among the trees to the north caused him a new shot of anxiety. But he pressed on, keeping his eyes focused on the goal that mattered: reaching the hippie in need and getting him to wherever he was trying to go.

As he trekked across the narrow stretch of beach to the section of road known as the Highway Fork, he felt Plummet Man’s presence sticking closely behind him. With every swish in the sand he heard coming from his own feet, he could hear in stereo several feet behind.

Once he reached the road, he glanced over his shoulder to confirm that Plummet Man was right behind him. The expression on his mouth was still flat, somewhere between disapproval and resignation. When Jimmy lifted his hands to question his actions, Plummet Man simply gestured him to continue forward. At this point he was giving Jimmy full control of the scene.

Because the hippie was lumbering along, Jimmy and Plummet Man caught up to him rather quickly. Plummet Man hung back a few feet while Jimmy veered in front of the hippie and stopped him.

Hi, sir, Jimmy said. We notice you could use a little help. If you would like my friend and I to assist your—

Without warning, the hippie swatted at Jimmy and hissed. Jimmy shrank back on instinct.

What the hell?

The hippie lunged at Jimmy, but Jimmy’s reflexes took over, and he sidestepped the man before he could strike. However, for someone who had been beaten just minutes ago, and injured below the knees, the hippie was remarkably fast, and before Jimmy knew what had happened, the hippie sideswiped him and knocked the spoons out of his hand. The hippie fell forward and tackled the spoons before Jimmy could reach down to grab them. Then he snapped at him while Jimmy’s hand was just inches away. Jimmy withdrew his hand to his side before the man could bite it off.

Jimmy took a few steps back. Plummet Man, meanwhile, was standing behind the hippie with his arms folded over his belly. He was indifferent as he watched the skirmish unfold.

Care to help? Jimmy asked.

No, you got this, Plummet Man said.

The hippie was down on his hands and knees, cradling the spoons as if he were a lion and they were his cubs. Whenever Jimmy took a step forward, the hippie would growl at him and swipe.

Should I just let him have the spoons? Jimmy asked.

Plummet Man shrugged.

Good question. How important are they to you?

I don’t know. They’re spoons.

What if they were covered in nitrogen powder and he was going to use them to blow up the city?

Jimmy was trying to listen to Plummet Man’s questions, but his focus was almost entirely on the hippie. It seemed the hippie was inching closer to him with a hot fire in his eyes. He seemed really intent on eating Jimmy’s hand.

I didn’t know nitrogen powder could do that, Jimmy said.

Who knows? I’m not a chemist. Just an example. What if he had the ingredients to destroy the city in his hands right now? What would you do?

Call for backup.

What if we’re all tied up. What then?

I don’t think a hippie is going to tie you up. That’s ridiculous.

Plummet Man unfolded his arms and pointed at Jimmy.

Play the scenario, Powerstick Man. You’re training now.

Jimmy shuffled away from the hippie as he lunged at his feet. Now the hippie was trying to stab him with the spoons.

Fine. Okay, first I would fight back.

Jimmy jerked forward in an effort to scare the hippie into backing off, but the hippie threw all three spoons at his face. As Jimmy put up his forearms to block the assault, the hippie jumped to his feet and dashed past him, bumping him in the side, nearly knocking him over. When Jimmy spun around to catch his balance, he watched him running for the city and marveled at how quickly he recovered from his previous injuries.

Jimmy hunched over and caught his breath. In the wake of his burst of adrenaline, he hadn’t realized he was tiring out.

What just happened? he said.

Well, you defused a situation, sort of, said Plummet Man. In the messiest way possible.

Why was he acting that way?

You could chase him down and ask him if you want.

Jimmy shook his head.

This has got to be the craziest place in the world.

He straightened his knees and stretched. With his hands pressed against his lower back, he leaned back and cracked it. Then he clenched his fists and leaned over, trying to pull the kinks out of his spine. Then he shook his hands to loosen up.

When he stood up again, Plummet Man stepped in close and elbowed Jimmy in the side. Jimmy bowled over as he felt the air rushing out of him.

Ow, why? he gasped.

Training, Plummet Man said. Always be on your guard. When even the peaceful hippies attack, you know you cannot lower your vigilance.

Plummet Man reached down and picked up the spoons.

Also, he said, you disobeyed my order. Let’s not forget that you’re the sidekick. I told you to leave that guy alone. He didn’t look right, and you’re not ready to deal with people like him.

Jimmy wanted to argue that he had singlehandedly defeated two known members of the Order of Pilephile just a few months earlier, but seeing as how that battle had landed him in the hospital for six weeks, he thought it was a bragging right worth keeping to himself.

So, what now? he asked, still gasping.

Now we return to our dune and keep practicing our spoons.

***

When Jimmy got home that night, he brewed some tea, grabbed an icepack to deal with the day’s bruises, and thought about how poorly he had handled the situation with the fallen hippie. While he sat on his sofa listening to Every Breath You Take on the radio, he started to wonder if he was well-equipped enough to face his old enemy. Sure, he had taken down two members of the Order of Pilephile during the crisis at city hall, and he did so alone, but he dispatched them by what felt like luck. The energy harnesser he had used to blow them out of the third floor window had given him a heart attack. Every medical professional he had seen since convinced him to never use it again. Facing a known mass murderer who wanted to murder him without that portable lightning bolt shooter was probably going to suck.

That night, he saw his orthopedist visit return in a dream. Once again he relived the nightmare of witnessing the aftereffects of half a dozen police officers falling in a spray of blood on the waiting room floor. Once again he awoke in a pool of sweat. Once again he went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of hot water and attempt to calm himself back to sleep.

The next morning, he and Plummet Man forwent the spoons to train beside a parked car in the Cannonball City Heights District. When Plummet Man noticed his heart wasn’t in it, thanks to Jimmy thinking about the Spotless Cowboy, even though he didn’t mention it, he suggested they go to Smack Burgers for some lunch. It was while they were eating with Cherry Chicklet and Miss Honeysweet, two beautiful ladies who also kept their hands dipped in the crime-fighting pool, that the Pig Rocker, a fellow Risen Ordinary with a hotheaded persistence, busted in with some big news about the old fallen ocean liner called the Tropica Hardcore and what life-altering detail had been discovered about it. He told them they needed to go to the Risen Ordinaries’ conference center on Sandy Smack Island to hear more about the situation and the repercussions of the findings. After the reprimand Plummet Man had given him at the beach the day before, Jimmy reluctantly agreed to join them. But his heart wasn’t in that journey, either. He was uncomfortable with the idea of taking a long walk in plain daylight, exposing himself to the hidden crosshair of a sharpshooting maniac who now knew exactly where to find him and could reach New Switzerland at any time. He wasn’t sure if Plummet Man would understand.

Chapter 2

________

The Fisherman’s Request

If anyone were watching him closely, the observer might’ve seen salt dripping from his sea green eyes. Or sweat. And if he were looking up, probably some tears; that was, if he had given the observer a chance to see what he was hiding on the inside, what he hid behind his sea green eyes.

As the ocean rolled over the southern shores of Sandy Smack Island, the out-of-work surfer dug his fingers in the white sand, avoiding the looks of the locals that he knew were watching him. A lime green sailboard lay dead at his feet, barely touched in the months since he had moved to the secretive island of New Switzerland. And though the wind blew, he had no intention of riding it today. His nerve was shot and his desire, broken. He had brought it to this island for nothing.

***

Long after darkness had set in, his T-shirt clung to his back from him sweating so much. And it was only mid-February. His pulse thumped and the moisture on his forehead cooled in the sea breeze. His sailboard was back at the Smack Inn, and even if he wanted to ride it, the breeze wasn’t strong enough to carry him far. Never mind that the choppy winter waves would’ve knocked him back to shore. He shook his head. Think.

Next to him, a house wall reinforced with bamboo and plywood siding blocked his view of the ocean. Or more importantly, blocked the ocean’s view of him. Mildly content with his position, he brushed his fingertips along its edge to steady his body. Then he leaned against the wall and knelt in the sand, uncertain of his next move.

The growl from the powerboat’s engine drew closer, rising from a distant hum to a rumbling thunder. Before long, if he didn’t find a way out, the machine would find him. And it wasn’t alone. Both men were riding it—he had seen them—and they were leading the hunt. Their presence left him tense in the shoulders, tight in the neck, and quick with the pulse. From what he knew about them, they were exceptional hunters.

Even if he could escape Sandy Smack Island through the northern bridge, the cliffs below Cannonball Peak offered him no ladder or passage to the Mountain Road. He’d have to travel the lengthy Statue Beach to reach the highway, and that would leave him exposed. He wasn’t sure if he could make it, especially when it was so easy for them to skim the coast.

Landon McHale had been hiding all night. Now that morning was racing in and his cover of shadows was quickly diminishing, he didn’t know where to go. The window over his shoulder was locked, the cedar storm shutters closed, and the house’s owner was still inside.

The island’s mayor, Dr. Robert Smack, told the community to keep watch for him; he had eavesdropped on a small group discussing it the night before. If anyone were to find a man matching his description—medium height with scruffy, dirty blond hair and deep tan, a surfer who didn’t belong there—they were instructed to stop him. Fear of the future nipped at his throat. Someone would try if he couldn’t find a way out of there.

The powerboat’s engine circled to the south of the island.

A sudden breath, and it was time to move. Landon crawled to the north of the house, scraping through pockmarked sand, leaving a faint drag trail behind. That journalist in the passenger seat had been stalking him since Hawaii. Maybe even before. Nose of a bloodhound, eyes of a detective, and he’d follow that trail all the way to the back of his feet if Landon didn’t throw new mounds of sand on it first.

A cloud of dust blew by. He wiped his nose. It had been like this all night. Up until the last hour, two motorboats and a cabin cruiser had been watching the perimeter, shining high-beam flashlights across the narrow width of the oval island. Between the constant shift of security and the steady blast of the Caribbean winter—white sand was as good as snow in this part of the world—Landon had no time to sleep. Now he was exhausted.

When the boats retired, he almost made a break for it. But the captains lingered on the beach and were in direct line of sight between him and the northern bridge. Then the powerboat sped across the sea from South Island and began circling the beaches like a starving shark. By the time the captains finally went to their cottages, Landon was too tired to run. And the powerboat—the one with the relentless fisherman and the piranha like journalist—refused to rest.

He crawled to the east, pressing flat against the plywood wall. The sound of the powerboat’s engine moved to the west. He could see the black frothy ocean again, and in the horizon, the dangerous tongue of sunlight rising.

Dawn began as residents emerged like zombies from their wooden homes, clawing at the air as they yawned, scratching at their bellies as they stimulated awareness to morning. Soon he would be caught. Seagulls bounded from royal palms to private docks, hunting for elusive breadcrumbs chiseled from Smack Burgers. Clouds of sand blew past him as he gazed across the sea, past the twin peaks of South Island and into oblivion.

There was nowhere to run now. They had won.

Something chinked, then ground in his ears, and a hard wooden tapping followed.

Hey, said a voice from the window that was now opened beside him. A man, half-asleep, peeked through. You that guy Smack was telling us about?

Landon didn’t care anymore. Didn’t care who could see him. He refused to let that journalist torment him again. He jumped to his feet and ran, kicking dust to the side of the house.

Hey, stop him!

Other residents in earshot, staggering between the boundaries of sleepwalking and a confident stride, glanced in his direction. Most of them didn’t comprehend the situation, judging by their blank faces.

Most of them.

Not so fast, sport-o, said a beefy guy with purple hair. He was still in his boxers. His shorts had the shapes of anvils running down the legs. You’re a marked man.

Landon froze. The beach punk rushed him from next to a royal palm, dust swirling around his ankles. Landon’s eyes trailed toward the ocean, toward the west, toward Hawaii so far away.

The waves were churning, but small, and in no state for a man of his ability to call adequate. His tournament surfboard had long since vanished in his transition from Hawaii to New Switzerland, and the mid-February breeze only reminded him of the barrels he was missing in Oahu’s North Shore Banzai Pipeline.

A contest was underway that morning and he had to forfeit. How the mighty had fallen, he thought. His heart was broken.

And so was his concentration. The beefy punk slammed him to the ground.

***

Sand swished behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. A large man of about six-and-a-half feet stood over him and looked down on his floppy blond hair.

You busy? The man’s voice was husky, commanding.

In a sense, said the surfer.

He thought about the sadness he wanted to embrace, and how doing anything might’ve upset that plan. He also thought about running again, but was fully aware of the length of the brooding man’s arms, and the power in those fingers that could grab him by the neck and throw him back in the sand.

Good, I need your assistance.

The man was bald and had sharp facial features. A celestial pattern of burn marks scarred his shoulders and parts of his back. He carried a tackle box in one hand and a wetsuit in the other. Whenever he turned, one could see the tattoo of a hawk spreading its wings on the nape of his neck. The locals called him Fisherman Steve.

Behind him, the journalist with an Einstein hairdo jogged into Landon’s sight, bent past Fisherman Steve’s waist, and, using a digital camera, snapped a photo of Landon lying there supine in the sand. Then he glanced up at the fisherman and patted his thick biceps.

We’re even, the journalist said, that obsessive little man. Then he looked down at Landon. I’ll make you a star, yet, boy.

Then he ran off toward the boats.

The fisherman, meanwhile, folded his arms.

Well, you getting up? Been a long night you know.

The surfer shook his head.

Don’t think I’m available today. The sun was destined to rise over Oahu in six hours. The annual surfing competition was starting in eight. Have to lament some things.

Fisherman Steve lay his tackle box by his feet and extended his hand to Landon.

So, you’re the one Manjoman Bobbinski writes about. The fisherman knew his facts. The one he calls ‘Rectum’.

Landon snorted. That hack? He’s been following me around since my Malibu Beach days.

Landon sat up and glanced past Fisherman Steve’s waist, toward the western shore. The journalist, who tried to build his fame off of Landon’s fame, had already passed several bamboo houses. Don’t believe a word he writes. And that’s not my name.

I like his stuff. Weird as hell. The one about scarecrows scaring aliens was probably my favorite. And I know you’re some surfing star overseas, and frankly, I don’t care that you need to lament some things. I need your help. You’ve got an ability most people on this island don’t have.

Landon searched his mind for any quality about him that would seem important to a supposed hero or man rumored to have history with the Navy SEALs.

What’s that?

An ability to hold your breath. For quite a while, if Manjoman is right about you.

Landon hugged his knees, refusing to move from his spot. The fisherman would have to drag him away from here.

"There’s a reason his segment is called The Completely Fake Documentaries," he said.

Right, a journalist who doesn’t research. But like you said, he follows you around. He knows a lot about you. He says you got strong lung capacity. Says you went under for three minutes once when your cord trapped you against a rock. Don’t think he’d make that up.

You’d be surprised what he makes up. That hack, that fame-stealing hack.

Fisherman Steve leaned over as far as he could without tipping over and rested his hand on Landon’s shoulder.

I’m pretty sure he’s not making that up. You’re tired. Probably scared. We had you on the run all night. The mind does strange things when it’s on heightened alert. Time to come back to reality now. No need to deceive yourself. He’s not making it up.

Landon exhaled.

"Hate to break it to ya, but he was making that up."

Fisherman Steve raised his eyebrows.

So you weren’t trapped underwater for three minutes?

No.

Really? Fisherman Steve’s right eyebrow fell, while his left remained arched.

Yeah. Landon stared into the horizon, remembering the day well. It was six minutes.

***

Less than an hour later, nearly dragged against his will, Landon found himself sitting in the passenger seat of the white offshore powerboat, clutching his fingernails to the seat and sucking in his stomach for nerves. The boat combined water sports and luxury into a tight, sexy package: v-hull, bow cabin, and gelcoat image of a fishing pole intertwining with a machine gun. If not for his virtual kidnapping and imprisonment on the vessel, he would’ve found it awesome. With Fisherman Steve at the helm, his hands barely touching the steering wheel, the boat sped toward South Island as a hunter in search of camp, skipping across the ocean’s undulating surface in a show of acrobatic grace. Droplets of saltwater splashed Landon’s face in the crosswind and got into his eyes and mouth. Salting the prey with an aquatic missile before drowning him at the great island roast. Landon rubbed his eyes.

I still don’t know what you need me for, he said, trying to shout above the engine roar.

It’s better I don’t tell you until I know for sure myself.

Several boulders protruded from the turquoise waters ahead of them, dotting the oceanic vista between Sandy Smack Island and South Island with dark warts. Rays with three-foot wingspans glided along either side of them, casting animated shadows along the shallow sea grass-carpeted floor. The ocean breeze whipped past their foreheads as the powerboat zigzagged among the boulders in exaggerated arcs, hopping tiny waves like a rabbit. Landon would’ve wanted to cheer if it weren’t for the fact that he was supposed to be depressed, and confused.

I liked my perch in the sand, he said, not willing to admit that he liked the boat ride more.

There’s plenty of sand on South Island, but I don’t think you’ll be spending much time on it.

They coasted to a canoe that was moored to an isolated dock via pulley and suspended several feet over shoal waters. Once Fisherman Steve dropped anchor, they climbed into the canoe, and Steve lowered them into the water. Then, a few minutes later, they rowed ashore, parking the tiny vessel on the white beach between three sabal palms.

The rocky slopes of the twin peaks, which covered the majority of South Island, towered before them and bent slightly toward each other like a lobster’s claw, with a single alley of beach cutting through the cliffs to the other side. Past the alley, another white beach and long stretch of ocean awaited. Beyond that, the island was pretty featureless.

Fisherman Steve stomped off the boat and jogged across the narrow shore into the alley, carrying his tackle box and wetsuit with him. Landon followed.

This is where I keep my stuff, Fisherman Steve said as he maintained a heroic stride through the soft sand. People don’t usually bother me here.

Why would anyone bother you? Who would want to?

The better question is why I don’t want them bothering me. Of course, too much has happened in the last year for me to ignore them. Either way, the question’s not important.

The island was so small that they managed to travel half the length of the alley and penetrate the heart of the island in just a matter of minutes. Fisherman Steve stopped to catch his breath just beyond the halfway mark. Landon still had some wind left in him.

Why don’t you want them bothering you?

Fisherman Steve stared across the alley toward the southern shore. A royal palm waved just beyond the mouth.

There are things about me that are better left unstirred. But as I said, it’s not important.

Like what?

It’s really not important.

The more you say that, the more I think it is.

Fisherman Steve resumed his jog toward the other side. Landon continued after him.

We’re almost there.

What’s not important?

Once again, the bald fisherman stopped. Landon nearly ran into him. He turned to face him.

It’s possible I might’ve been responsible for all of this.

Fisherman Steve’s eyes bore into Landon’s soul. Through the mixture of intensity and vacancy, a few red veins popped out of his corneas. Landon stared back.

Responsible for what?

Come on, just a little further.

Past the alley, the southern coast opened up with multiple palms and boulders flavoring the beach. A grassy scent wafted down from the cliffs above while the scent of coconuts swirled around them. And the rumble of the ocean’s waves drowned the cries of gulls nearby.

A cave burrowed into the face of the western cliff, and a sign next to it warned unwanted visitors to Keep Out. Fisherman Steve advanced toward it.

In here, he said, as he passed through the pitch black opening.

The light drained away quickly, and the echoes of bats took precedence over the songs of the sea. A wide floor with a low ceiling stretched into deep shadows. A tiny structure, either a house or a woodshed, stood in the middle. Next to its front door, a single light bulb with generator attached glowed.

I’ve spent all year trying to find the right equipment for this mission, Fisherman Steve said as he stomped toward the dimly lit house. Found some of it in Primex, but had to scour most of it elsewhere. And none of it was cheap.

What mission?

Fisherman Steve opened the front door. The house’s interior was so dark that Landon couldn’t see inside.

I have to make sure it wasn’t my fault.

He stepped inside the house and disappeared in the shadows. Landon had no desire to follow him in.

***

A short time later, Fisherman Steve parked the powerboat and dropped anchor in a turbulent region of the ocean where the seafloor dropped from the continental shelf and the shallow turquoise water familiar in the shoals melted into a deep, sinister murk. They were about half a mile southwest of the island. The whitecaps stirred the remainder of what used to be a minefield of crates. A plank with some perverse resistance to water brushed against the hull.

Landon rested his elbows over the fiberglass side as he took in the sights around him.

Seems you guys got this place pretty clean, he said. "I remember the water being twice as polluted when I came here on the Cannonball Queen in November."

Should’ve had it cleared out nine months ago, but we kept hitting snags. Seems it’s gotten harder to dump stuff in the Forgotten Junkyard in the last year. Junkyard Bob installed a security system at some point and most of the citizens here don’t know how to bypass it. So I’ve been doing most of the cleanup myself.

Must be exhausting. Landon paused. His stomach churned as the unthinkable crossed his mind. Wait a minute. You didn’t bring me out here to help you clean the place, did you?

Fisherman Steve killed the engine. It spluttered, spat a few water drops out the back, and died. The boat bobbed in silence over the choppy surface. His seafood-stained teeth flashed like a string of flattened pearls.

No, you’re out here for something much more complicated.

There wasn’t much on the boat’s floor. The tackle box lay beside the captain’s chair. A fishing pole rolled around between it and the passenger seat. A bucket with a couple of foil-wrapped hamburgers or chicken sandwiches sat just behind Landon’s left right wrist. There was also that potato sack that Fisherman Steve had lugged out of his cave and into the canoe, which was now below deck in the powerboat’s cabin. Landon shrugged.

I give up, he said. How am I supposed to help you?

Fisherman Steve jabbed his forefinger at the ocean.

I’ve been looking for answers all year, trying to scour the wreckage for clues about what happened. Every time I think I get a little closer, something stops me, like a shark or a dried up air tank. And every time I get a little sicker inside because I can’t find it. But in my last excavation, I found a glimmer of hope.

"The Tropica Hardcore? Are you talking about excavating the Tropica Hardcore?"

Fisherman Steve leaned over from the captain’s chair and reached for the plastic hatch in front of Landon’s knees. Once he popped it open, he pried himself off the chair and stomped below deck into the interior cabin. Landon caught a glimpse: It was narrow with ceiling low to the floor and hardly the epitome of comfortable lodging. The hatch door drifted to a close behind Fisherman Steve’s low-slung body before Landon could evaluate the plush sofa lining the wall or the polished metal sink next to it. He twiddled his thumbs while he waited for Steve to return. Whatever he was doing in there, he caused the boat to shake. When the hatch opened again, Fisherman Steve ducked out with SCUBA equipment cradled in his arms and laid it on the floor. From the pile he removed a wetsuit, unzipped it, and stepped inside.

A few weeks ago I found the entrance to the security office where all the ship’s logs were stored. And I think it’s possible to salvage the monitoring tapes from the night the ship sank. Problem is—he pulled the suit over his shoulders and zipped it up—the door is too small for me to fit through with an air tank on my back.

So you want me to get the tape for you?

Fisherman Steve winked at him with gun-shaped index fingers drawn.

Landon scanned the pile of SCUBA gear at his feet. While there was another wetsuit on hand, Fisherman Steve claimed the only tank with buoyancy compensator and regulator mouthpiece.

How do you expect me to get down there without a spare tank? he asked.

We’ll have to buddy breathe, obviously. You have SCUBA experience?

No, and I don’t want to put that thing in my mouth after you’ve sucked on it. I don’t know where you’ve been. And what about the tank? How is there even enough air for both of us?

"Relax. The saltwater will wash away the germs. And you’ll only be breathing one-sixth of the tank. You can hold your breath for six minutes, remember? But if it’s that big of a deal to you, I can at least pass off the octopus to you, that’s the second stage regulator, but only