Matches Mallone
... He's thinking about what Ralph Nader said when he last watched TV.
"I don't want the freedom to go through a windshield."
And seconds later he's thrust head-over-heels through a quarter-inch of breakable perfection. Crack, crack, crack, he thought, as his bones went...
I.
Matches sits.
He stares.
He tells himself that he doesn't give a fuck tonight.
Tonight he had too much work to do and needed some sleep.
Blisters is calling people at all hours of the night.
All ours of the night.
That's about usually when the sirens start.
Matches sees what's going on.
BEARCAT 796-DGV.
You couldn't buy a better police scanner if you sold your house.
Every channel scanned quickly.
Every last one.
"We have a situation, sargeant!"
Screams over the tiny earpiece.
Matches sighs.
His hands rest against his mask.
He gives an impatient look to the scanner.
Any second now.
Street name?
Number?
Asshole?
He waits. This was the worst part...
"Suspect is on foot. Moving West on Blanchard." Comes the scanner.
Fuck.
Bacon, Egg and Cheese sandwiches are going to kill Blisters.
We're going to have to have a talk with him.
And we're off.
Matches hits the ground with an audible thud.
Few people are out on the street at this hour,
But some are. Everyone always turns around.
His boots say with a grandiose greeting "Hey, some shit's going down over here."
II.
"Hey, Kat, did you see that? Or am I out of my gord?" At this point, Brian is remarking about the 6'3 heavyweight wearing the raincoat and the clown-mask.
"What the hell are you talking about?" She asks, absent-mindedly turning about. Nothing is happening, she returns to enjoying her twisty-cone. She wonders what it would be like to see someone get hit by a car right now...
III.
... He's thinking about what Ralph Nader said when he last watched TV.
"I don't want the freedom to go through a windshield."
And seconds later he's thrust head-over-heels through a quarter-inch of breakable perfection. Crack, crack, crack he thought, as his bones went...
"Suspect is on foot. West on Main."
Fucking shit.
Fucking goddamn motherfucking shit.
Now Matches is running.
See Matches run.
He almost loses his hat twice.
It was a funny sight, were you around Ventura Avenue at 4:15 am last night.
It was sick.
A large man, built like a tank, ran headstrong down passed the corner of Ventura and Woods, panting like a worn-out puppy, saying things like "Fucking gay." and "This is rat-shit insane." The moonlight hardly reflecting his mask with perfection. Mask of tragedy. Suddenly he starts jumping up in the air. Loses his hat, loses it again, and is gone for a second.
Soon things get worse.
IV.
"Hey, are you sure you didn't see that?" Brian asks, while tasting his delicious twisty-cone.
She doesn't even begin to pay attention. The look on his face is one of utter terror.
"There was a gigantic gentleman in a big coat running down the street. He had a jester’s cap." He looked on for about a moment more and then looked away, righting himself.
"Actually, nevermind. I'm on crack today, I suppose." He shakes his head, unsure of what he saw.
"This kind of reminds me of that Dane Cook joke." She says. "You know, like, always wanting to see someone get hit by a car?" She pauses, licks her tasty treat, looks back at Brian and asks "Don't you want to get what you want, baby?"
She started to say something else. However, it was cut off by Brian saying "Ohhhhhhhhh!" And then someone getting hit by a car.
V.
... He's thinking about what Ralph Nader said when he last watched TV.
"I don't want the freedom to go through a windshield."
And seconds later he's thrust head-over-heels through a quarter-inch of breakable perfection. Crack, crack, crack he thought, as his bones went...
Matches, at this point, was excited to no end and jumped up and down a bit.
His hand went down to his belt. Viper Security.
Viper Security it kind of like Gillette.
It's the best a man can get.
"Subject has reached Ventura." The most exciting news in the world. He thinks that he can do this and go to bed, and he wants to be lazy about it. Matches gets the stun gun.
It's at this point that a 1955 Porsche Spider comes careening around the corner. It screeches. A bead of sweat gathers at Matches' brow. The door of the porsche is hanging open and a man in a business suit is thrown from the vehicle. He appears to roll away unharmed while the car picks up speed.
It's at this point we employ a trick called "Operating on a restricted frequency" And flip the switch on the Bearcat.
He at first has himself a good sigh. Then he says, directly to dispatch "Suspect is driving a 1955, Porsche, Blu-"
"Sir, this is a police channel... You must change frequencies immediately." Some random voice says over the scanner.
Matches then raises his voice, and the stun gun goes back to its pouch. "Corner. Ventura Woods. Suspect is no longer on foot."
At this point, the Porsche is going about 48 mph. It's just speeding up. Matches gets back into his belt.
"Sergeant, you should call an ambulance. Things are going to get worse before the get better." And the Bearcat cracks on the street. Static and nothingness and awe.
His Medkit obviously has one of those vaccuum sealed life vests in it. I think he could use some life… vest… Something to save this costumed ass. Thomas Wayne is dead for a reason.
The Porsche is about ten feet from him when he jumps.
From across the street someone calls out
"Ohhhhhhhhh!"
And Matches has one of those thoughts where you don't know what to think, beside
"Wow. Thanks, kid."
VI.
At this point, the guy wearing the mask, which looked sad, with his jester’s cap flying off, with what looked like a small raft in his hands, rams headstrong into the windshield of a car.
Brian thinks "Goddamn."
Katrina turns around as the crash blankets the air in a sea of jagged fragments which quickly silence the crowd.
"Goddamn." Brian says. "That's rat-shit insane." He proclaims, dutifully, as it is his job to declare stuff rat-shit insane.
VII.
... He's thinking about what Ralph Nader said when he last watched TV.
"I don't want the freedom to go through a windshield."
And seconds later he's thrust head-over-heels through a quarter-inch of breakable perfection. Crack, crack, crack he thought, as his bones went...
…Right through that fucking window.
Matches really got hurt. "Blisters is going to pay for this tonight." He says, aloud.
The life vest idea didn't really do anything.
Didn’t deflect shards of glass at all as expected.
He flew into the porsche.
It hurt.
Now, ripping someone from carseat, to blacktop, on nothing more than Bacon, Egg and Cheese sandwiches was going to kill Blisters. However, Matches didn't have the time.
"Time of death placed at 4:16 am." He said, as he reached his gloved hand back.
This scared the guy.
It didn't matter what the crooked fuck did.
He was caught and things were over.
Crack, crack, crack.
The sirens blared in the distance. This guy was out cold.
He wasn't dead, obviously…
…But he was out cold,
And the red, white and blue lights
Quickly cascading over our hero in danger.
He leapt to the street.
His leather coat flying behind him.
He reached for his Bearcat.
Obviously smashed to the floor.
Needs a new one.
Pieces of glass imbedded into our hero.
Blisters needing to get home.
VIII.
At this point, Katrina and Brian were in awe.
They had seen a person get hit by a car. He didn't kick off his shoes in a fit of joy.
He rammed himself through the front windshield of a car with a life vest,
Dove out of the car at 50 mph with the guy driving
And beat the living shit out of him
For the cops
And then disappeared.
Plus he was dressed like a court jester.
The car, it turns out,
The Porsche Spyder from way back in the day?
Ran into a tree
And harmed no one
Except for the tree,
Who was rather displeased with the whole situation.
Brian licked his tasty treat. "Guy dressed like a clown jumping some car's shit."
"Weird." Katrina said. She also licked her twisty-cone.
"Yeah, well... Guess that shit happens around here." Brian says. "I don‘t think I‘m coming back."
"What for?" She asks.
"I'm just sick of all these goddamned superheroes flying around, and shit."
"Brian!" She calls.
He starts walking away.
"None of them can fly!"
She screams.
IX.
Quick visit to The Attic to clean myself up.
She's downstairs waiting for me.
Coat/Mask/Hat/Outfit in the armoire.
Everything else is technically self-defense equipment.
It all gets strewn on the cot.
I jump in the shower.
I pull tiny pieces of windshield from my body.
"Matches isn't in right now..." I say,
"But, if you'd like to leave a message..."
I trail off.
Shower. Plug up the few cuts that are bleeding terribly.
Bathrobe on.
I go out onto the roof.
Slide down the railing of the porch
And I let myself in the back door
And I make my way to the living room.
This way she won’t know.
She's there.
She looks amazing.
"Hey, Dolly."
I say.
"Blisters. Gee, thanks for showing up,
I missed you terribly for the little bit you were gone." She says.
I nuzzle her nose.
Her and her perfect purple dress.
"I missed you too, lovely." I say.
"You have cuts all over your face." She says.
"Yeah."
"Are you seeing other good little girls?"
I laugh.
She knows.
"Take me." She says, pulling her hair back and falling to the couch. Just as easy as that.
Save the day.
Get the girl.
I smile,
I curve my eyebrows a little,
I move toward her.
I hold her hands in front of her body
I kiss her forehead in the middle
I move down her nose.
I look in her eyes
I tell her I adore her.
I take her to the bedroom.
I lay her down in the bed.
"Blisters!" She remarks, as I start to untie her shoelaces.
"Click your heels together, and tell me you want to go home." I challenge.
She moves, unwilling in her ecstasy.
"Wait, wait, one second." She states. She's not submitting to me immediately, but... Why?
"Is he asleep?" She asks.
I laugh. One shoe down. One more to go.
"The Gimp? This isn't Pulp Fiction." I hold her down.
"You know what I mean…” She says as she bites her lower lip. “Matches?" She asks. She's so cute. She
Pulls a Newport out of her purse.
I produce a match from the pocket of my bathrobe.
Matches has these around him all the time. I don't get it. Why not just use a lighter?
In The Attic, there is a mask waiting for me.
It’s laughing.
I light her cigarette.
"He’s done for the night, beautiful." I say.
She takes a long drag.
I slap the cigarette from her hand and
Quickly bound her hands together.
“I, however, have merely just begun.”
"Oh, Blisters!" She screams. Over and fucking over again.
"Now, click your heels together and say you want to go home." I say.
She spreads her legs.
X.
Brian takes his time staring at the car wreck for a lot longer than expected.
"Hey. I want to go home." Katrina says.
He has to stare at the beauty of the wreck.
Brian watches on in utter horror.
Blisters lays down with the girl he loves, who knows his secret.
Matches sits and waits.
Tomorrow night is another night.
Epilogue.
... He's thinking about what Ralph Nader said when he last watched TV.
"I don't want the freedom to go through a windshield."
And seconds later he's thrust head-over-heels through a quarter-inch of breakable perfection. Crack, crack, crack he thought, as his bones went...
Hey. I'm taking over while Brian's on his rat-shit insane conquest.
Nice to meet you.
-Aiden
"I don't want the freedom to go through a windshield."
And seconds later he's thrust head-over-heels through a quarter-inch of breakable perfection. Crack, crack, crack, he thought, as his bones went...
I.
Matches sits.
He stares.
He tells himself that he doesn't give a fuck tonight.
Tonight he had too much work to do and needed some sleep.
Blisters is calling people at all hours of the night.
All ours of the night.
That's about usually when the sirens start.
Matches sees what's going on.
BEARCAT 796-DGV.
You couldn't buy a better police scanner if you sold your house.
Every channel scanned quickly.
Every last one.
"We have a situation, sargeant!"
Screams over the tiny earpiece.
Matches sighs.
His hands rest against his mask.
He gives an impatient look to the scanner.
Any second now.
Street name?
Number?
Asshole?
He waits. This was the worst part...
"Suspect is on foot. Moving West on Blanchard." Comes the scanner.
Fuck.
Bacon, Egg and Cheese sandwiches are going to kill Blisters.
We're going to have to have a talk with him.
And we're off.
Matches hits the ground with an audible thud.
Few people are out on the street at this hour,
But some are. Everyone always turns around.
His boots say with a grandiose greeting "Hey, some shit's going down over here."
II.
"Hey, Kat, did you see that? Or am I out of my gord?" At this point, Brian is remarking about the 6'3 heavyweight wearing the raincoat and the clown-mask.
"What the hell are you talking about?" She asks, absent-mindedly turning about. Nothing is happening, she returns to enjoying her twisty-cone. She wonders what it would be like to see someone get hit by a car right now...
III.
... He's thinking about what Ralph Nader said when he last watched TV.
"I don't want the freedom to go through a windshield."
And seconds later he's thrust head-over-heels through a quarter-inch of breakable perfection. Crack, crack, crack he thought, as his bones went...
"Suspect is on foot. West on Main."
Fucking shit.
Fucking goddamn motherfucking shit.
Now Matches is running.
See Matches run.
He almost loses his hat twice.
It was a funny sight, were you around Ventura Avenue at 4:15 am last night.
It was sick.
A large man, built like a tank, ran headstrong down passed the corner of Ventura and Woods, panting like a worn-out puppy, saying things like "Fucking gay." and "This is rat-shit insane." The moonlight hardly reflecting his mask with perfection. Mask of tragedy. Suddenly he starts jumping up in the air. Loses his hat, loses it again, and is gone for a second.
Soon things get worse.
IV.
"Hey, are you sure you didn't see that?" Brian asks, while tasting his delicious twisty-cone.
She doesn't even begin to pay attention. The look on his face is one of utter terror.
"There was a gigantic gentleman in a big coat running down the street. He had a jester’s cap." He looked on for about a moment more and then looked away, righting himself.
"Actually, nevermind. I'm on crack today, I suppose." He shakes his head, unsure of what he saw.
"This kind of reminds me of that Dane Cook joke." She says. "You know, like, always wanting to see someone get hit by a car?" She pauses, licks her tasty treat, looks back at Brian and asks "Don't you want to get what you want, baby?"
She started to say something else. However, it was cut off by Brian saying "Ohhhhhhhhh!" And then someone getting hit by a car.
V.
... He's thinking about what Ralph Nader said when he last watched TV.
"I don't want the freedom to go through a windshield."
And seconds later he's thrust head-over-heels through a quarter-inch of breakable perfection. Crack, crack, crack he thought, as his bones went...
Matches, at this point, was excited to no end and jumped up and down a bit.
His hand went down to his belt. Viper Security.
Viper Security it kind of like Gillette.
It's the best a man can get.
"Subject has reached Ventura." The most exciting news in the world. He thinks that he can do this and go to bed, and he wants to be lazy about it. Matches gets the stun gun.
It's at this point that a 1955 Porsche Spider comes careening around the corner. It screeches. A bead of sweat gathers at Matches' brow. The door of the porsche is hanging open and a man in a business suit is thrown from the vehicle. He appears to roll away unharmed while the car picks up speed.
It's at this point we employ a trick called "Operating on a restricted frequency" And flip the switch on the Bearcat.
He at first has himself a good sigh. Then he says, directly to dispatch "Suspect is driving a 1955, Porsche, Blu-"
"Sir, this is a police channel... You must change frequencies immediately." Some random voice says over the scanner.
Matches then raises his voice, and the stun gun goes back to its pouch. "Corner. Ventura Woods. Suspect is no longer on foot."
At this point, the Porsche is going about 48 mph. It's just speeding up. Matches gets back into his belt.
"Sergeant, you should call an ambulance. Things are going to get worse before the get better." And the Bearcat cracks on the street. Static and nothingness and awe.
His Medkit obviously has one of those vaccuum sealed life vests in it. I think he could use some life… vest… Something to save this costumed ass. Thomas Wayne is dead for a reason.
The Porsche is about ten feet from him when he jumps.
From across the street someone calls out
"Ohhhhhhhhh!"
And Matches has one of those thoughts where you don't know what to think, beside
"Wow. Thanks, kid."
VI.
At this point, the guy wearing the mask, which looked sad, with his jester’s cap flying off, with what looked like a small raft in his hands, rams headstrong into the windshield of a car.
Brian thinks "Goddamn."
Katrina turns around as the crash blankets the air in a sea of jagged fragments which quickly silence the crowd.
"Goddamn." Brian says. "That's rat-shit insane." He proclaims, dutifully, as it is his job to declare stuff rat-shit insane.
VII.
... He's thinking about what Ralph Nader said when he last watched TV.
"I don't want the freedom to go through a windshield."
And seconds later he's thrust head-over-heels through a quarter-inch of breakable perfection. Crack, crack, crack he thought, as his bones went...
…Right through that fucking window.
Matches really got hurt. "Blisters is going to pay for this tonight." He says, aloud.
The life vest idea didn't really do anything.
Didn’t deflect shards of glass at all as expected.
He flew into the porsche.
It hurt.
Now, ripping someone from carseat, to blacktop, on nothing more than Bacon, Egg and Cheese sandwiches was going to kill Blisters. However, Matches didn't have the time.
"Time of death placed at 4:16 am." He said, as he reached his gloved hand back.
This scared the guy.
It didn't matter what the crooked fuck did.
He was caught and things were over.
Crack, crack, crack.
The sirens blared in the distance. This guy was out cold.
He wasn't dead, obviously…
…But he was out cold,
And the red, white and blue lights
Quickly cascading over our hero in danger.
He leapt to the street.
His leather coat flying behind him.
He reached for his Bearcat.
Obviously smashed to the floor.
Needs a new one.
Pieces of glass imbedded into our hero.
Blisters needing to get home.
VIII.
At this point, Katrina and Brian were in awe.
They had seen a person get hit by a car. He didn't kick off his shoes in a fit of joy.
He rammed himself through the front windshield of a car with a life vest,
Dove out of the car at 50 mph with the guy driving
And beat the living shit out of him
For the cops
And then disappeared.
Plus he was dressed like a court jester.
The car, it turns out,
The Porsche Spyder from way back in the day?
Ran into a tree
And harmed no one
Except for the tree,
Who was rather displeased with the whole situation.
Brian licked his tasty treat. "Guy dressed like a clown jumping some car's shit."
"Weird." Katrina said. She also licked her twisty-cone.
"Yeah, well... Guess that shit happens around here." Brian says. "I don‘t think I‘m coming back."
"What for?" She asks.
"I'm just sick of all these goddamned superheroes flying around, and shit."
"Brian!" She calls.
He starts walking away.
"None of them can fly!"
She screams.
IX.
Quick visit to The Attic to clean myself up.
She's downstairs waiting for me.
Coat/Mask/Hat/Outfit in the armoire.
Everything else is technically self-defense equipment.
It all gets strewn on the cot.
I jump in the shower.
I pull tiny pieces of windshield from my body.
"Matches isn't in right now..." I say,
"But, if you'd like to leave a message..."
I trail off.
Shower. Plug up the few cuts that are bleeding terribly.
Bathrobe on.
I go out onto the roof.
Slide down the railing of the porch
And I let myself in the back door
And I make my way to the living room.
This way she won’t know.
She's there.
She looks amazing.
"Hey, Dolly."
I say.
"Blisters. Gee, thanks for showing up,
I missed you terribly for the little bit you were gone." She says.
I nuzzle her nose.
Her and her perfect purple dress.
"I missed you too, lovely." I say.
"You have cuts all over your face." She says.
"Yeah."
"Are you seeing other good little girls?"
I laugh.
She knows.
"Take me." She says, pulling her hair back and falling to the couch. Just as easy as that.
Save the day.
Get the girl.
I smile,
I curve my eyebrows a little,
I move toward her.
I hold her hands in front of her body
I kiss her forehead in the middle
I move down her nose.
I look in her eyes
I tell her I adore her.
I take her to the bedroom.
I lay her down in the bed.
"Blisters!" She remarks, as I start to untie her shoelaces.
"Click your heels together, and tell me you want to go home." I challenge.
She moves, unwilling in her ecstasy.
"Wait, wait, one second." She states. She's not submitting to me immediately, but... Why?
"Is he asleep?" She asks.
I laugh. One shoe down. One more to go.
"The Gimp? This isn't Pulp Fiction." I hold her down.
"You know what I mean…” She says as she bites her lower lip. “Matches?" She asks. She's so cute. She
Pulls a Newport out of her purse.
I produce a match from the pocket of my bathrobe.
Matches has these around him all the time. I don't get it. Why not just use a lighter?
In The Attic, there is a mask waiting for me.
It’s laughing.
I light her cigarette.
"He’s done for the night, beautiful." I say.
She takes a long drag.
I slap the cigarette from her hand and
Quickly bound her hands together.
“I, however, have merely just begun.”
"Oh, Blisters!" She screams. Over and fucking over again.
"Now, click your heels together and say you want to go home." I say.
She spreads her legs.
X.
Brian takes his time staring at the car wreck for a lot longer than expected.
"Hey. I want to go home." Katrina says.
He has to stare at the beauty of the wreck.
Brian watches on in utter horror.
Blisters lays down with the girl he loves, who knows his secret.
Matches sits and waits.
Tomorrow night is another night.
Epilogue.
... He's thinking about what Ralph Nader said when he last watched TV.
"I don't want the freedom to go through a windshield."
And seconds later he's thrust head-over-heels through a quarter-inch of breakable perfection. Crack, crack, crack he thought, as his bones went...
Hey. I'm taking over while Brian's on his rat-shit insane conquest.
Nice to meet you.
-Aiden