Randolph and Kim

Chapter 10

AUTHOR'S NOTE: All of my stories have been written for an exclusively adult audience. They contain descriptions of violence, some of it of a sexual nature. They also include other sexually explicit depictions. They are in no way suitable for minors. Furthermore it is against the law in many parts of the world for this type of material to be read, either by minors or by minors and adults. Please make sure you are not acting contrary to local legislation before reading on and please do not read any further if you find this type of material offensive in any way. This is a work of fiction and any similarity between the characters and events depicted and any people/events in real-life, past or present, is purely co-incidence. A number of the characters and events portrayed are inspired by, or based upon, existing works of fiction. Although I have made every effort to keep plagiarism to a minimum, I must acknowledge a debt of thanks to the many artists and writers who have shared their talents with the public. I've released my stories to the public domain to make sure that as many people as possible who share my interest in this type of fiction can enjoy them. Please feel free to re-distribute them by whatever means you like, provided you respect the following points: (1) The stories will be re-distributed exactly as they are - unchanged and unedited. (2) No other person will claim authorship of any of these stories or any part of them. (3) The stories will not be distributed for profit, either on their own or as part of a group of other works. Lastly, thank you for your interest in this story. I hope you enjoy it!

Night still holds Southern California in its dark grasp. Over an hour remains before dawn, but the small community is full of activity. There's the emergency services tending to the wreckage of the J. Edgar Hoover High School. And there are a myriad of black government vehicles speeding around the streets, gathering witnesses and individuals of potential relevance or interest. Like bees going out for nectar and returning their sticky bounty to the hive, the black cars are collecting their cargoes and bringing them to a makeshift operations centre.

The Bureau has set up a series of interview cubicles and temporary offices in a commandeered warehouse. All of the surviving witness to the destruction of the school, and all of their immediate families are there. Kim's parents are there too. And several of her teachers. Arriving now, flanked by two large, inexpressive men in plain black suits, is Mr. Lieberman, the school counselor.

Ten minutes ago, he was woken by government men banging on his front door. Now, bleary-eyed, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and his tennis trainers, he is being briskly and insistently escorted to a vacant cubicle. The two men who fetched him did not allow him time for the luxuries of coffee, underpants or socks. They bring him into the tiny room, and one of them instructs him to sit.

Lieberman watches the Channel 8 News every night. He knows about the Pizza parlour murders, the devastating explosion at the school, the rumours started on TV of the involvement of one of the pupils, Kimberley Peterson, and the unconfirmed stories of multiple killings outside her home. He knows he has been brought here in connection with the terrible events of the past hours, and he listens in growing shock as he is told the full story as pieced together from camera footage and corroborated witness accounts. It's like the plot of an atrocious science fiction story, but the starkness of the cubicle, the almost-aggressive efficiency of the government men standing over him and the blood-drenched horror of the details they are relating combine to force the counselor to accept that it is a staggering reality.

And now, he is being told that he must play a role in this unfolding nightmare. His training and experience in talking to young adults, especially one particular young adult, is needed. Mr. Lieberman feels overwhelmed by the responsibility. He can recall the six, no... seven previous occasions when he has been required to talk to Kimberley Peterson. About her attitude. About her inappropriate clothing. About her inappropriate behaviour. About her lack of School Spirit. About abstinence. About her attitude again. Most of all, about her attitude.

Those previous discussions had been difficult for him for multiple reasons. He'd found the girl's unwillingness to take advice frustrating and her selfishness exasperating. Her lack of respect for authority or adults in general made his job much more challenging. He has no doubt that this serial disrespect is the result of an upbringing devoid of proper engagement and discipline. The same ineffectual parenting, he is sure, also explains her loose sexual morality. It is something of a paradox to Lieberman that anyone exhibiting such staggering levels of narcissism could also make herself so seemingly easily available.

The counselor has always tried to avoid dwelling on this apparent contradiction in the Peterson girl's personality. It is not an area he feels safe to contemplate, even internally. The pangs of jealousy he feels towards all the boys whom she has let touch her are palpable. He's not a homosexual, and he has decent eyesight. His professional record is unblemished but he wouldn't be a normal human if he wasn't biologically affected by the girl's extraordinary attractiveness. He can recall awkward discussions sat opposite her during which the majority of his brain was occupied in the struggle not to stare at her spectacular chest straining against her inappropriately-tight top or the smooth firm flesh of her thighs emerging beneath the inappropriately-high hemline of her skirt.

No other student makes it so hard for him. In so many ways. And now, if the government agents briefing him are correct, the same girl has somehow acquired superhuman strength - enough to lift and throw a gasoline truck - and invulnerability - enough to be untouched by a hail of bullets. It seems her residual attitude issues have been allied with super-powers and the authorities cannot cope. So they are turning to him, Mr. Lieberman, School counselor.

The Bureau want him to sit down with the Peterson girl. They will find a way to get her to come to their temporary HQ. Quite how they intend to persuade a wilful, arrogant young woman who cannot be physically controlled to go anywhere is not clear. Lieberman's job is to talk to her once she arrives. He has to look her in the face - and only the face, something which is far more easily said than done - to gain her trust. And then he has to convince her to stop killing people. To make her understand that her new powers should not be used for selfish or violent ends. Of course, given her unstoppable strength and remarkable invulnerability, he will have no threat to hold over her and no protection if she decides to harm him.

Lieberman regards the task he has been set to be so close to impossible that the difference is negligible. He has never been able to get through to her in the past and now the odds are stacked a million times less favourably. But the fear of failure pales to nothing in comparison with the fear of becoming yet another of Peterson's growing number of victims. He's terrified what she might do to him if he angers her in some way.

"I.. I'm not sure I'm the right guy for this..." Lieberman expresses his doubts.

"The Bureau disagrees," he is informed. "We think you are the ONLY guy. We're counting on you Mr. Lieberman."

Lieberman is simultaneously flattered and overwhelmed by the weight of trust suddenly placed on his shoulders. The combined boost to his ego and appeal to his sense of duty have the intended result. He swallows hard. "So... when do you think she will be here?" he asks.

Randolph is peering over the top of the steering wheel, scanning the sides of the road ahead with increasing urgency. Occasionally, his eyes flick down to the dashboard indicator that reveals the ever-shrinking amount of fuel that remains in the tank. He needs to find a filling station but all he can see is dark wilderness either side of the road. Finally, he notices a bright light up ahead. He strains to see better. It's some kind of illuminated sign. He hopes it's inviting passing motorists to stop for gas. He's still quite a distance away and the billboard's contents are no more than indiscriminate shapes to his imperfect eyesight but he takes the precaution of changing to the outside lane in preparation, oblivious as he cuts across an RV that has to brake sharply. He ignores the angry blast of the other vehicle's horn as he squints to get a better look at the roadside sign.

It turns out that the billboard is not, as Randolph hopes, advertising the presence of a filling station. He's about to find out that it is actually promoting a television programme. This instant, he is just beginning to realise what the huge advert depicts. He can see it is mostly a picture of a person. Randolph grunts in disapproval as it becomes clear that it is an image of a woman. He feels the rising bile of moral outrage as the closing distance allows him to see that it is a young woman wearing an utterly unacceptable dress. This is exactly the sort of image that he will make illegal when he has the power of the Sherman Crystal. It's disgusting that such a thing can be placed, magnified and lit so visibly by the side of a road.

Randolph continues to stare at the poster, revolted that he must live in a world where pictures of young women in low-cut dresses can be displayed in public. The depraved photographer seems to have made his subject lean forwards towards his lens so that a vast amount of nubile, airbrushed cleavage is displayed to the world. "How dare she!" thinks Randolph, as his right hand slips from the steering wheel and begins massaging his quickly-hardening organ through the fabric of his trousers, his eyes not moving away from the abomination for an instant. "How dare she use her obscene body in this way, casting her evil spell, blunting the intelligence of superiors like me!"

His foot is easing slightly from the accelerator as he subconsciously ensures that the vile poster with its sickening image remains visible for as long as possible. He's also rubbing himself with increasing insistence. He cannot tear his gaze from the gap between the billboard girl's breasts. "She will be punished for this crime," he tells himself as he fumbles, one-handedly, to unfasten the fly of his trousers. "All her kind will be disciplined when I have my power but this indecent harlot will be taken aside for special punishment. She will pay for her exhibitionism. Above all she will pay for distrac-"

Randolph's internal monologue is abruptly interrupted, mid-word. Just as a proud, talented sailor is drawn onto the rocks by the Siren's call, so he, Randolph Sherman, has been hypnotised against his will by an obscene poster and has driven off the side of the road, partially into a ditch. Of course, he already knows it's all the fault of the girl on the billboard and her disgraceful dress and her even more disgraceful body.

The driver's airbag deploys, saving him from dashing his brains out on the steering wheel but he feels no relief as the inflated fabric fills his face. There is only anger and hatred. Most of this he feels towards the girl in the image and all her kind for making him want to touch himself. There are sufficient quantities of anger and hatred for him to apportion a small fraction to himself for yielding to evil temptation. The witches have cast their wicked spell and in a rare, rare moment of weakness, he has, briefly, fallen for it. There will be no moments; there will be no weakness of any kind once he achieves his final triumph over all things female by extracting his power from she that stole it!

The front wheels of his car are in the roadside ditch. The hood is mangled and, with the whole vehicle pivoting on the lip of the trench, the back wheels are suspended above the road. It does not require Randolph's decades of automotive experience to work out that his car is going nowhere. The problem he faces is that, if he remains with it, he is bound to attract attention from passing police patrol vehicles.

He lifts his face from the airbag and sits up. His neck aches terribly. His back is even worse. It stings him with pain as he reaches across to the passenger seat to grab the cardboard box containing his tools and spare components. A sudden panic grips him. He thrusts his left hand into his jacket pocket and carefully extracts the Sherman Crystal. Turning it over in his hand, he finally gets to experience relief. The crystal, the very embodiment of his scientific genius, is intact and undamaged.

Randolph places his crystal back in his pocket and, gingerly, wincing, he gets out of the wrecked car, clutching the box to his chest. He feels nauseous as he walks and he staggers, slightly unbalanced, away from the road and the lights of cars and evil billboards. Before he melts into the unlit wasteland by the side of the road, he cannot resist one final glance up at the poster girl's degenerate cleavage. The glance becomes a stare again. His flies are still open and he soon resumes the touching of a few moments ago. This time, he is not interrupted. Fifteen seconds pass before his seed is spilt onto the dusty ground. Then he stumbles into the night with his box, his crystal, his anger and his shame.

Kim is still looking for Veronica so she can get even with the skinny bitch for ratting her out. Having failed to find her target at home, she's now completed a supersonic jog through the sleeping suburbs to the street where Stephanie, another of her friends, lives. She's thinking that Veronica might be there, but there is a tiny fault in her plan. She hasn't visited Steph's house in several years and, although she has correctly recalled the street name and successfully navigated her way there even as a faster-than-sound streak, she can't remember the house number. To make matters worse, all the houses in the street look the same. So she's standing on the side-walk, turning her gaze one way then the other, vaguely searching for a clue and finding none.

Her thoughts are preoccupied with her quest. She's not making any conscious effort right now with the way she looks. The fact that she appears so breath-takingly sexy is merely the natural consequence of her extraordinary beauty and her minimalist clothing. She's pouting with the disappointment of not knowing which is Stephanie's house, but the effect of that is to make her gorgeous face utterly irresistible. Her hands are planted on her curvaceous hips because of her frustration with the situation, but this just causes her fantastic body with its flat belly and magnificent large round breasts to be majestically displayed. She slowly turns her glorious torso slightly to one side and then the other as if she were showing off her brief, tight, sky-blue two-piece bikini on a catwalk when in reality she's merely swivelling to scan the street with her beautiful bright eyes.

Finally, she notices a tiny flicker at the side of a house down the road. A thin strip of light appears in the small gap along the bottom of a garage door. Someone has switched the lights on inside. She blinks and her superhuman eyesight zooms in on the house. She can see the shadows of feet moving in the light. The rest of the building is dark, but she has no difficulty peering at the windows. She's not sure if the curtains are familiar or not. Only then does her gaze fall on the mailbox by the front gate. It isn't possible for even the most eagle-eyed of normal observers to tell whether there is anything written on the mailbox. Not from Kim's current distance of over a hundred yards. Even with binoculars, ordinary folks wouldn't be able to read the small letters painted on the side. But Kim can see the name written there as clearly as if it were mere inches from her beautiful face. "Why didn't I think of that before!" she thinks, without any trace of self-admonishment. She doesn't really care: the letters on the mailbox match Stephanie's surname and that's all that matters right now.

She blinks, her vision returning to normal and then she becomes a streak of movement, a blur of flawless pink mingled with flashes of light blue from her bikini. The blur becomes solid again, standing in front of the garage door, the light from within bathing her pretty ankles and her flawless feet. Kim bends at the waist, her stunning breasts hanging like the fruit of paradise at the moment of perfect ripeness. She reaches low with her left hand. There's just enough of a gap at the bottom of the door for her to insert her dainty fingers. Then, she stands up again, raising her hand. She puts as much effort into her action as she might have done to pick up a sheet of paper from the ground two days ago. Now, that same effort is enough to deform the aluminium garage door, wadding it up as if it were damp cardboard, not sheet metal. Only the sudden screech of futilely protesting material reveals the true nature of the door's composition. The casual movement of her slender arm exerts massive force, not only crumpling the panel but also snapping the six-inch thick heavy wooden frame above it as if it is nothing more substantial than a matchstick. A number of the surrounding bricks are cracked too.

It takes less than a second for Kim's hand to destroy the garage door and cause considerable damage to the frame and beyond. Now she has revealed the interior of the garage. From the street, it is possible to see the bent and torn hinge mechanism that previously allowed the big door to pivot. Too late now for that. It's also possible to see the two shocked men in black suits standing inside the garage. Kim removes her hand from the compressed remains over head. The metal groans and a trickle of brick dust cascades onto her shoulder but the mangled aluminium stays in place. She brushes the debris from her smooth exposed flesh and then turns to the surprised duo.

"Who the fuck are you?" she asks.

"Agent Thomson, FBI," the taller of the two responds, "and this is Agent Green," he adds, with a nod towards his colleague. "And you must be Kimberly Peterson?"

"Whatever," Kim dismisses both the introductions and the question. "Where's Stephanie? And Veronica?" she demands.

"Your friends took a trip out of state," Thomson lies, keeping to the script that was hastily communicated to him a few minutes ago. "If you like, we can take you to your parents. We're keeping them safe." He uses his considerable experience to add a note of menace to the final sentence.

The vague threat is lost on the scantily-clad teenager. Kim rolls her eyes to show her boredom. Her parents? Those are just about the last people she wants to see right now.

"Fuck that." she sneers.

Agent Thomson assumes that Kim has misunderstood his overly-subtle delivery. He opts for a more obvious approach. "Your Mom and Dad are pretty scared, Kim. They're tired and they need to get cleaned up," he tries to explain.

"So what?" asks Kim. She could not be less interested.

"Well," Thomson continues, optimistically, "if you come with us now and just sort out a few details, we can let them go to a nice hotel where they'll be a lot more comfortable."

"Nah," says Kim, "you keep 'em." She just can't be bothered with going with these jerks and 'sorting out details' - whatever the hell that means. Not if all she's going to gain from the process is another stupid lecture from her stupid parents. She attempts to steer the conversation back on to her terms. "Where did Stephanie and Veronica go?"

"I... swear I don't know. But if you'll come with us now, we can-" Thomson's brief hesitation is enough to betray him.

Kim instinctively wonders if he is being completely straight with her. At super-speed, she walks forward the four paces until she is standing right in front of Agent Thomson. In his eyes, she seems to vanish and reappear in less than an instant, suddenly much closer. He does not have time to react. He stops talking mid-sentence and staggers backwards, half a step, in shock. Kim reaches for him, cupping his chin with her left hand and in a easy, fluid movement, she lifts him from the ground until her arm is fully up-stretched and Thomson's feet are level with her shins. She has to tilt her head back to look at his face which is now nearly two feet higher than hers.

She can see the fear now in his eyes. Sweat is beginning to bead on his forehead. He's trying to swallow but, with his whole body supported by Kim's slender arm under his chin, he can barely manage it. His two hands come up to clasp Kim's dainty wrist. It's not clear if he's trying to dislodge her grip by prising her fingers apart or merely attempting to use the strength in his arms to take some of the weight of his body off his neck. Either way, the girl's small, feminine hand does not move at all. The government man's face turns ever more red and the desperation in his eyes becomes increasingly evident. To Kim, the large muscular man may as well be weightless. She could hold him like this all day if it weren't so boring.

Agent Green has been a mute spectator until now. With his partner's ability to speak now severely compromised, he realises he must break his silence. "Miss Peterson, please be aware that your parents' well-being depends on Agent Thomson not being harmed," he informs her, his own voice anything but steady or authoritative as he observes the demonstration of her amazing strength. It's difficult for any man to be menacing when he is close to being overwhelmed by fear and awe.

Kim turns to look at Green. She takes a couple of steps towards him, carrying Thomson with her like a child might carry a balloon, his legs dangling helplessly in the air as she strides. Agent Green steps back, now visibly trembling with fear. His left heel strikes a heavy box and he loses balance, falling over the box onto his rear. Kim begins to bend towards the stricken Agent. She reaches for Green with her right hand without thinking about the man trapped in her left. Thomson's feet touch the ground and then he's forced to bend his knees as she lowers his body without noticing. Agent Green gasps as he sees Kim's hand approach him and gasps again when he subsequently notices the magnificent sight of her two, large, firm, now pendant breasts. They look as if they might spill from their tiny sky-blue hammocks at any moment. He has never felt more frightened or more aroused.

Most men in Agent Green's position would be paralysed by fear, but he has not been selected for field work by chance. The terror he feels quickens his thoughts. He exhibits remarkable levels of professional focus as he briefly manages to prevent the supremely erotic view from occupying his entire mind in order to rapidly formulate the best idea of his career. He already knows that threatening - or indeed, using - violence against this girl has proven catastrophic for those who have tried it. He now realises that threatening repercussions against her parents is also a failed tactic. He needs another way of getting through to her. But how to reach a deadly, unstoppable, sexy (no... concentrate!) teenager? And then, inspiration strikes him.

"Kimberley!" he blurts, rushing to complete his words before she clasps her hand around his throat, "The Bureau has seized all of your personal property. If you hurt us, we won't be able to stop them destroying it!"

Astonishingly, Agent Green's words have an effect. Kim pauses, her fingertips just inches from his neck. Agent Thomson's chin remains immovably secure in her other palm. Thomson is powerless to move or escape. He stays kneeling at her side in enforced supplication. Agent Green now stares, unable to resist any longer, into the deep, inviting wonder of the young woman's ripe cleavage. He barely has mental capacity for the sensation of relief that she is no longer reaching for him, so entranced is he by her feminine beauty as she freezes mid-lunge.

"What do you mean, 'personal property'?" she enquires. She's pretty sure she knows what the words signify, but she needs to check to be certain.

Green is momentarily stunned by the question. Most of his brain is working on processing the awesome information being passed to it by his eyes, and there's not much left to deal with the data coming from his ears. He knows this is probably the only chance to save himself and his partner and he needs to come up with the perfect reply. One wrong word and they could both be dead.

Kim needs to know urgently what he meant about the Bureau destroying her personal property. She is, perhaps for the first time in years, genuinely concerned. If it means what she thinks it means, she's got to stop it happening. But now the jerk won't tell her. What's wrong with him? She checks his face to see if she can glean any information there and, without realising, discovers the cause of his delayed response.

"Stop staring at my tits, perv," she admonishes, standing up again so that her chest will no longer fill his entire field of vision. This action causes Agent Thomson to be pulled from his knees and entirely off his feet once more. Kim shows her displeasure and impatience by placing her right hand, the one that nearly grabbed Agent Green a few seconds ago, on her hip.

Green is humiliated. He knows her accusation - the staring part, anyway, is undeniably true. As for being a pervert, well, she is a schoolgirl half his age... He makes a point of looking upwards, right into her eyes. Her face is stunning with its sexy, sneering mouth, but it is slightly less mind-melting than her cleavage. Only slightly, but that is enough. His survival plan comes back to the fore of his thoughts. He races to answer her original question about personal property.

"Your clothes, your accessories, your shoes," Agent Green starts to improvise a list, pretty sure he has worked her out now. The shock that appears on the girl's lovely face shows him that he has. Emboldened, he continues, "your CDs, your books, your-"

"What books?" Kim interrupts.

"Shit," thinks Agent Green. "I should've known not to say books... need to get out of this one fast..."

"Erm, the books inside the CDs," he says out loud. "The Bureau treats them separately from the actual discs," he bullshits brilliantly. Then he completes his grand-master's gambit: "Agent Thomson and myself are the only ones who can stop the guys back at HQ destroying all of that, ah, stuff as part of their, um, investigation."

"Fuck," he thinks to himself. "Destroying clothes and CDs as part of an investigation... she'd have to be a complete moron to buy that!" He continues to glare into her beautiful eyes, desperate for her to see that he is not looking at her torso any longer, that he is not actually a pervert.

"How come you're the only ones who can stop them?" she asks, her tone one of genuine curiosity.

It's all Agent Green can do not to audibly sigh with relief. She's actually swallowed that crap! The next lie comes easily and confidently from him: "We head up the Quality Fashion and Music Investigation Department," he claims.

Kim has been wavering between believing the perv in the suit and doubting his words. But it makes sense to her both that her clothes and music from home would fall under the heading of 'Quality' and that an organisation like the FBI would have a department specialising in such crucially important matters.

"You'd better call up the office and tell them not to touch my stuff," Kim announces, "or I'll kill your friend here. And you as well, perv."

Green almost cannot believe that she has accepted his lies as truth. His confidence is growing by the second. If he can convince her that he is in charge of a ridiculously-titled fictitious department, the next part should be relatively easy to sell.

"I can't, Miss Peterson," he says. "Believe me, I would have done that already if I could. It's Departmental Protocol: no communication by phone about clothes or music. If I call in and mention your stuff, they'll assume I'm a... er... a spy and automatically put your things into the incinerator."

"What's that?" Kim demands "Like a kinda washing machine?"

"No," Green says gravely, as if he is telling her of the death of a relative, "It's a big fire that burns them."

She looks horrified. Agent Green is surprised by the strength of the reaction and works fast to stop her doing anything he or his partner would regret. "It's OK," he reassures, "as long as no-one mentions clothes or music on the phone. No one will harm your things as long as Agent Thomson and myself give the order in person back at HQ. But if one of us gets hurt," he looks away from her eyes for just long enough to glance across at his colleague, still dangling helplessly from her up-stretched palm, "then everything will be destroyed automatically. I'm sorry. I wish it wasn't like that but it is."

Amazingly, Kim is completely taken in by the fake note of regret. With huge care, almost as much care as she used to squeeze her magnificent body into the sky-blue bikini that adorns it, she lowers Agent Thomson to the ground and removes her hand from his chin. Thomson rubs his jaw and breathes heavily.

"So, like, are you going to bring all my stuff here?" Kim asks. She's completely forgotten about Stephanie and Veronica and taking revenge and all of that. Something far, far, more important has come up. Her clothes and shoes and CDs are in danger!

"Why don't you come with us to collect it?" Agent Green replies, as if the suggestion has just occurred to him. He deserves an Oscar for his performance, however the girl looks unimpressed with the offer.

"You get to ride in the back of a limo," pipes up Agent Thomson, still rubbing his chin but now finally able to participate again. He's taking his cue from Agent Green, but he comes across more like a wealthy father trying to persuade his spoilt daughter to see a theatre play than the protocol-encumbered joint head of the FBI's Quality Fashion and Music Investigation Department. Part of Thomson is amazed that his colleague's off-script, spur-of-the-moment appeal to the girl's materialism has been so successful. Most of him, however, is just relieved to still be alive. Having now experienced a mere fraction of Kim's strength first hand, he can see how easy it must be for her to take lives.

Agent Green is thinking how ridiculous Thomson sounded offering a superhuman killer a ride in an Esplanade. "At least," thinks Green, "he didn't promise to stop for ice-cream."

Kim is oblivious to either man's thoughts. "What kinda limo?" she asks. "Is there a TV in it?"

Agents Thomson and Green exchange glances.

Randolph's feet hurt. He can barely see the ground he's walking on and he keeps stepping on sharp rocks. Three times now he's almost tripped and spilt the precious contents of his box. Each time that happens, he has to stop, put down the box and check that the Sherman Crystal in still in his coat pocket. He's pretty sure there's a hole in his left shoe. It's certainly full of dust and sand. It's all the fault of that degenerate whore on the poster who tricked him into crashing his car. He knows he has to stay away from the road now, because it is just a matter of time before a passing patrol car sees his abandoned vehicle. They'll run the registration plates through their computer and work out his identity. They will want to take his crystal, his last hope of reclaiming his power. But he will not let that happen. He, Randolph Sherman, is far too clever.

He's too far from the Interstate now to be able to hear the passing cars or see the brief illuminations of their headlights. But he does not need the highway for navigation. In the past hour, a thin crescent moon has appeared over the horizon. He knows if he keeps it on his left, he's heading South. Despite his exhaustion, the pain in his feet and the effort of carrying the box of tools, he will stagger on, using the moon as his guide, until dawn breaks in a couple of hours. Each painful, tired step is bringing him closer to the border. When first light hits, he will be better able to reassess his options. He's on the run. He has lost his car and he's alone in the desert. The energy he spent forty years painstakingly collecting has been stolen by a disgusting exhibitionist trollop. But he still has his Sherman Crystal. He still has hope.


Conceptfan, Feb. 2015.