I got two full-to-bursting paper bags in my arms and three blocks to go. If I didn’t have super strength, this would be tough. But instead, it’s just my weekly grocery trip, coming home from the local Piggly Wiggly.
Yeah, I’m sweating a ton, but that’s about normal in the middle of an August in Atlanta. the paper bags are barely an impediment to that, so long as I don’t think about it too much.
“It’s got to be an Ascendants plot, right?” I ask.
“Almost certainly,” R8PR says, once again leaned back in his reclining chair as if it were his new throne. He props up his feet and places them on the coffee table, which makes me furious on instinct. It’s not my home, but I’m still furious. “Gold, and pretty much any metal, is untraceable if you smelt it down. The best money laundering conduit available on planet Earth. But of course smelting isn’t such an easy task. Not many own the facilities that could operate such high heats, which clearly indicates that a higher-up organization is involved.”
“Like someone with a factory.”
The R-18 section of Anime Attic… This is where the wall scrolls turn from scandily dressed anime women into naked anime women with nipples out the wazoo.
Here I am waltzing in here without sunglasses and an overcoat on, showing my whole identity to the world. And I even thanked Tony… Oh, wow, I’m ruined.
A three-foot-tall statue of Arale, the world-famous manga character from Akira Toriyama’s Dr. Slump, greets me at the entrance to Anime Attic.
“Anime Attic, A Place for Anime Addicts!” reads the tagline.
“Please kill me,” reads my mind right now if you are an ESPer (or if you are reading this right now).
Cool biz fashion, once again, fails to even make a dent in how awful everything is in Atlanta these days.
Yeah, I got a short-sleeved shirt on. Yeah, I got shorts on. But I’m scrunched up next to fifty other people in the sky rail, all of whom are trying to get to work just like me, and holy crap is it absolutely destroying me.
I should have walked. I thought that’d make me way too sweaty to bother going to work, but it turns out that the sky rail and these too-tiny zipline buses are a much worse option.
Lamar’s fist goes right through the robot’s chest, sending chunks of rusted metal scattering all over the ground like shrapnel from a grenade.
Lucy de Blasio lives in a small house just south of Interstate 285. It’s a nice house. Not amazing, not exorbitant, but nice. That sort of nice where you wonder why she’d live around here, in a neighborhood that’s certainly not terrible, but certainly not wonderful. There aren’t guys selling coke on the corner, but there also aren’t any shops to speak of and the closest train station’s a mile away. Not a great place to thrive, but a nice place to live.
I don’t know about this.
I don’t know about this at all.
Larkins is a fool.
Mr. Gheb Larkins. A native New Jerseyan. An Air Force mechanic in the war. A divorced father of one. A bank manager for the Peach Towers branch of the Atlanta Cares Bank. My boss. And with all of that, an utter fool.
Why is he a fool, you ask? Well, if you, dear reader, have read this far into the story and still haven’t figured that out, then you, too, are a fool.
The Mighty Slammer, heinous, highly-armored supervillain, laughs. “Bahahahaha! My trap’s perfect! You never saw it coming!”