Saturday, September 17, 2011

Black Gazelle, Part 2

Sting looked at Finch as if he was speaking Chinese, “Finch, I just got out of jail for robbing a bank. And you want me to try again?”

“Get back on the horse,” Finch said, shrugging his shoulders, as if it were the simplest, most obvious decision to make.

“I think you mean wagon.”

“Trust me, I mean horse. And besides, it’ll be fun. Low risk.”

“C’mon,” Sting said, chortling, “A low-risk bank robbery? I know better than that.”

“Yeah, but we’re not doing it for the money,” Finch said, “We’re going to rob one of the Hunter’s banks and then give the money back to him in person. You know he’ll love it.”

Sting smiled, looking at Finch with a good deal of surprise, “Alright. But first, I’ve got some unfinished business to take care of.” This time Finch looked confused.

Looking at his plate, Sting finished off his biscuit. Smiling at Finch, he said, “Now I’m ready.”

It was a simpler and more spontaneous matter than one would expect, greatly expedited by the fact that both men had been involved in bank robberies before. They went to Finch’s apartment, a run-down sort of place, and Sting took an old Richard Nixon mask that Finch had used, whenever he wanted to stay hidden.

“You remember Death Walker?” Sting asked.

“With the weird dog mask,” Finch said, remembering one of his stranger acquaintances, “I never could get a handle on that guy.”

“I don’t think anyone could. Anyone human, at least.”

“It was strange the way he joined the Dastards. We were just five guys, going after Black Gazelle, and here this bizarre, uncanny guy comes and joins our group. From day one it felt like he was after more than Black Gazelle, but I could never really figure out what.”

“I always believed the rumors,” Sting said, seeming almost embarrassed. “I don’t think he was a human. The way he walked, the way he talked, the way he never seemed to die, or even age. I can’t not believe he’s the kind of guy who could take souls to Hell.”

“The psychopathic psychopomp,” Finch said, smiling, “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing we ever saw.”

With that, Finch opened his cabinet door. The number of guns reminded Sting of a shooting range.

“Take your pick,” Finch said.

“I think I’ll just use my stingray gun.”

“The whole point of the mask is so they don’t figure out who you are,” Finch said, “Don’t you think the identity of the guy with a dart gun is going to be apparent? Put it on the bed. You can get it when we come back.”

“Point taken,” Sting said, throwing his dart gun onto the bed and taking two handguns, “This’ll work.” Finch closed the cabinet. “Aren’t you going to need one?” Sting asked.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” Finch said, “So this time I’m going to stick to the basics.” He picked up his cane, which leaned against the cabinet. His bowler hat, which lay on top of the cabinet, he then placed firmly on top of his head, “The young ones probably don’t remember me. Let’s change that.”

Sting looked at the two guns in his hand, “You’re going all out this time, eh? Well, this isn’t my usual MO, but I don’t really want people to remember me.”

Finch smiled, “Let’s go.”

As Sting turned to leave the room, Finch slipped the stingray gun into his pocket.

It was a short ride over to the bank. For much of it, neither Finch nor Sting spoke. However, Sting had one nagging question that he felt needed to be answered, “What if they got one of those Anti-Super teams? The game’s changed a lot since you and I were in the thick of it. The bank probably has four or five attempts a month. So what do we do if they throw one of those Anti-Super teams on us?”

“A team like that is only called in to deal with super powers,” Finch said, smiling, “We’re just ordinary people, taking a trip down memory lane.”

Sting looked at Finch’s face, as the man drove them closer and closer to insanity. To be candid, he hadn’t remembered Finch being quite so bloodthirsty. Then again, Sting was on acid during most of the Sixties and Seventies. He didn’t remember much of anything, besides a few stories.

The car stopped right outside of the bank. Finch’s smile grew even wider as he saw the place’s name, “The Black Gazelle.”

“That Hunter moved on, eh? Doesn’t look like it. Looks like he’s got plenty of nostalgia of his own.”

“Well, we’re just going to get in, get out, right?”

“You, my friend, have no sense of fun. You go to the cash register, demand the lady put the money in your bag, and such. I’ll deal with security.”

With that, both men got out of the car. Bursting into the bank, they looked more than a little suspicious, especially Sting, with his Richard Nixon mask on. Finch, looking at the security guard with his hand on his gun, talking to his walkie talkie, smiled, “Now, now. Be a good boy and put down the gun, before ole Finch here has to get nasty.”

The security guard raised his gun, “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Finch said, ducking as the security guard fired. The guard looked horrified, as he realized he’d shot one of the other guards. Finch dove through the guy’s legs. Coming up from behind him, he took a knife to the guard’s neck, “Any last words?” he said, as he slit the guard’s throat.

The guard gurgled. “Not much, but it’ll have to do,” Finch said.

Gunfire rained down upon him, but he used the guard as his meat shield. Seeing where the gunfire was coming from, Finch tapped his cane on the ground twice. From the bottom of his cane, a knife shot out. Watching the knife hit the man in the forehead, Finch giggled, “Well, it’s good to know I haven’t lost my aim.”

Spying three guards coming at him from his right, Finch raised his guard/meat shield, who at this point was thoroughly bloodied. Taking the bowler hat off his head, he threw it at the three guards. Its razor-tipped edges proved effective, efficiently lopping off their heads. “Derivative, but it’ll do,” he mumbled. Putting the guard back on the ground, Finch walked over and picked up his bloodied bowler hat. Placing it firmly on his head, he then dusted himself off. He looked at Sting. “You got everything, Tricky Dick?” Finch said, proud of the codeame he’d given Sting.

“Yeah, we’re ready to go.”

“Alright, then,” Finch said, the blood from the bowler hat dripping down his face, “That was fun. But in all honesty, the security here is kind of pathetic. Really, we’re doing them a favor. How could they be so negligent?”

As Finch and Sting were two steps from the front door, they heard a voice from behind them, “You killed my grandfather.”

Turning around, Finch’s eyes widened. He was looking at The Black Gazelle. “You. A legacy,” Finch said, “I love you.”

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