Paresthesia Pt. 05

---

I want to make some merriment tonight. I have a full belly, but not too full, a full nap behind me and an odd energy burning in my stomach. It flows to my limbs and sets my fingertips alight. I want to break something just to watch the pieces scatter in some beautiful chaotic mess. Things as they should be made into messes so that something better can be built. Or maybe the act of breaking opens up a wall, allows something more to pass through to the other side. There is a use for breaking things, shattering things, taking a blunt object to the foundation with excessive force. Anyone who says there isn't simply does not understand construction. Order and chaos in equal measure, and there is simply too much order for my liking.

My preferred method of destruction lies in my backpack this evening, a seldom used part of my uniform, although an incredibly necessary one. It has spray paint in there, and I feel my artistic soul cry out for expression. My better half did not hear the call from her soul. She said that the fumes gave her headaches and she'd prefer an early night. I do not blame her. I imagine tomorrow will be one for me after a morning of sleeping in. As much as I hate to admit it, all-nighters are getting harder to pull off. I should have had a cup of coffee before I left, but I didn't.

Hindsight is a terrible thing to have at all times.

But I pull off the civilian garb and rummage through the duffel of all my actual things. All the leather and denim ripped and torn and patched and thread bare, all of it lies nestled and snug among its kin. It's a simple trade off. Much simpler than when the act requires two or more. Not that I've ever done more than one other party. But it is on and it hangs and presses on my body. I do not mind. I do not mind at all.

"Can I watch that for you, sir," says a passerby. Simply a vagrant, a tramp, a man down on his luck.

"Depends," I say, "Do you have a bottle of smoke?"

I watch the eyes and he nods to me, pulling a small pendant with a clover attached.

"Then absolutely. Although, I'm afraid there won't be a tip this time. I'm not doing any fancy banking today. Just some arts and crafts."

"Will the warehouse be open in the winter?"

"Without a doubt."

"Then it will be safe. Although, I expect an extra pillow."

"Fair enough."

The man smiles and he has wonderful teeth for a man without dental. Bloody Sunday's network runs very deep and carries with it a whole host of benefits, with me taking up some of the slack in some cases. All in all, a very fair deal. His name is Gerald and I like him. He gets a firm handshake and a nice flourish of my bat that he does not seem to appreciate. I send the first of my safety texts back home. A holdover from our original buddy system that I didn't know I missed. Makes me feel safer knowing there is someone out there with a finger on my pulse.

The canvas of tonight's little jaunt of naughtiness is an auxiliary garage. The roar of the squad car still rings in my ears, tempting me with demon song and explosive percussion. Tearing pavement and open throttles, so many things with wonderful acoustics. That, coupled with the kaleidoscope memory of Ultra-Violence's new ride, my mind has been abuzz with wonderful color concoctions.

I have taken the subway in the kit. I have taken a cab. But my favorite is always walking at street level. There are those that know the name and the face, those that are aware of what I am, those that don't. Each and every one of them goes through the process of putting all the pieces together over what is going on. And it all comes down to the man in the leather jacket with the mask and the hair and the bat is up to no good. That simple fact draws so many different responses. Fear, certainly, but every flavor of it. The completely innocent and naïve reaction to huddle against a wall, a slightly defiant barrier formed around the vulnerable members of the group, a nervous pat against the pocket or the purse to ensure that it has not been taken from.

They are all safe though. They are just not the targets of my jovial nature. They pass me by and I pass them while I keep moving forward. Some pull out phones, taking videos and pictures of something to go viral. I don't plan on doing anything worthy of that attention. Unless my presence alone is worth, but I don't think it is. It would be weird if I was. I play the bat against my shoulders and the crowd flinches collectively, fearful of harm and crushed bones. Again, none of them have anything to fear.

The fame is an odd thing, flashing lights and stunned looks. But no one stops for an autograph. No one stops me for a handshake and a picture, some recorded message for a fan back home. I assume it's the bat. It's a weapon, an implement of harm open carried. So, I have the crowd move around me as I keep the blocks slowly filtering past with each and every step.

It's an unassuming thing, the auxiliary garage, a holdover from when things were a little rowdier. A safe house for the squad car, and for any and all accompanying motorists, it's all tucked away on a corner behind a rolling metal shutter. The people of the night slowly morph around me, like I am a stone in a river.

My canvas speaks to me in hushed tones. It has suggestions of what it wants to be, and I let the ideas form. I will admit, I am not the best artist in the world, nor the most subtle. But art is its own reward, created for creation's sake, and I really only have three words I wish to say to the world. So long since anyone has been by. It's lonely, plain and simple.

The can rattles like baby teeth in loose gums, and I am happy. Such a delightful noise, such a delightful sensation in my hand, spinning smooth metal. It is red this time. It is an angry glowering red that comes from sunsets and bone fires. I test the spray against the sidewalk. I have drawn a crowd it seems, with the actions of artistic expression. I take a deep breath and let it go. The red on the sidewalk turns gray. It all turns gray.

I do not wish to be bothered in my atelier. I turn to my crowd of firefly lights. Each and every lens gets a quick layer of paint, blocking out the sight. A picture of a picture removes the meaning. Best experienced firsthand, and not through a small screen that taints the message. Pretentious and elitist, but I also have the privilege of directing the interaction of my art, no matter the cost.

It is a simple thing to write 'Punk's Not Dead' in my frozen time. The words hang in the air, inches from the canvas, still in the act of falling from the can onto the metal. The lines will be smooth and the words will be clear. I can't do any of the fancy effects, the swirling colors and the stenciled shapes. Just simple words to mark my presence, to mark that the safe house isn't so safe. A small rebellion, I know, a bit of rebellion for rebellion's sake. Someone under the heel will wash it away and the world will keep going on.

I shoulder my way through the gray crowd with dead lenses. They part well enough and they have their moment to remember. I am on the other side of the street, halfway up a fire escape when I give the world back to the color.

The crowd's confusion rises and falls once they realize the full extent of my actions. They have their frustrations, but they should have known better. Hanging around an out and out bad actor can really only end in one type of way. They knew the bat meant bad things were afoot, and they chose to hang around. If they simply had the wherewithal to take a picture after an adamant gaze, then it would have been fine. I would have accepted it. It would have preserved the memory of a brush with the darker side of the city, but they just couldn't be patient. I watch each and every one of them come to the same conclusion. The artist shouldn't have frustrated them. It should have been a small spectacle to titillate and forget. But I had my canvas presented and I couldn't resist.

"Your lettering is terrible," says a voice from my back. I chuckle as an unrefined flop shows me my guest in my gallery.

"Y'know," I say, "I could have sworn that our earlier conversation mentioned a reluctance to go out and do nefarious things."

Alizarin moves slowly, each step weighty and shaking. I think it's more of an effect than anything. The gloved arm from earlier is now free in the burned off sleeve of her jacket. And it's a normal arm. No burns, no swirls, not even an intricate tattoo designed to seal and protect. It's an arm, with some scarring, as all arms have, well defined and well suited to being an arm. She should be proud of it. I would be proud if I had arms like that.

"A reluctance to do nefarious things, maybe," she says, "but not a reluctance to go out. Can't stay inside all night. I needed a study break. Walks are a good study break."

"Little high up for a walk."

"Then you don't take good walks. And your lettering's still terrible. Drips and uneven lines. I'm ashamed, really. You have to be better than that. The slogan's terrible too. It means nothing."

I remain silent. I am not going to interpret my art for her, or anyone else for that matter. I have no grand delusions that I am here to save people from their own bad opinions.

"Maybe, but I have to paint something. And something I did paint. I'm about to hit another garage a few blocks over, if you want to tag along."

She mulls over the temptation to do bad things with someone she may or may not like.

"I mean, I was going in that direction anyway," she says.

---

She does not touch a can of spray paint. She does not look at the control of aerosol-based pigment I apply. She does, however, aid me in crossing some of the larger rooftop gaps that separate one step from another. Alizarin, oddly enough, turns out to be rather handy. The summoned carapace has many jags and spikes that fit a hand such as mine rather well. It even nestles my bat and my bag rather snuggly. Again, I wish to be this thing's friend, should the opportunity arise.

Its master, for her part, has a perch on its shoulder, serenely surveying the land. A queen on her throne, and what a throne she uses. Only the best for her.

She watches me do the next two sites with a similar performance. Once I am in the comfort of a dark alley, the spikey thing comes to hoist me up. It is very warm, very calming to the touch. I imagine it can get hotter. But I am perfectly happy with warm. It helps a lot with the night.

By our fifth piece, I am calling for a break and another safety text sent back to the base. Alizarin does not seem to mind. My better half was right, as always. The fumes are starting to get to me and give to me a nasty headache. Or it might be the height. I am not sure.

"Your lettering is still terrible," she says, "I was hoping the first one was a warmup or something. But no, you're just bad at this. Shame. Shame on you."

"I offered you a chance, but you never took it," I say, "So now we have to sit and look at my terrible art. You're welcome. I expect it to be on your fridge as soon as you get home."

She slides down against the AC unit of our roof. I imagine that it can't feel that good, but it works for her. I prefer to kick my feet over the side of the building. Brings a nice playground feeling to the whole conversation. Windows all over the city must have imprints of my boots marked in dirt and grime.

"Why'd you come out tonight," I say.

"Told you. Needed a break for a bit. And I like the roofs," she says, "One of the perks of my friend here. Don't need to cram in any elevators."

"But you can only go to the top floor."

"Exactly. Things are nice and quiet up here."

"School going aright?"

"Yeah. Finals are coming up soon so everything's a bit nuts."

"Eh, you'll be fine. Probably. I never did finals of any kinds, so I don't know how they work."

She snorts and that means she likes me. Girls snort a laugh when they like people. And they don't like it when people mention it, so I don't. I have the rooftop perch to sit on and stare over and I find that pleasurable enough.

The city finds its thrum with the car engines and rattling train lines. It echoes all the way up from the ground. It reminds me of Hannah. Not sure if that is complimentary to her, really. I am not sure if girls like being compared to cities, like the concept of them. I imagine there are worse things to compare, but there have to be better. Flowers, animals, maybe trees if said girl is into them. It's always a gamble the first time.

Alizarin joins me in my dangling escapades. I can feel the heat pour from her left side, the open arm that contains the new friend. Silence between us, but nothing to say. Just a quiet moment before more movement. There is weight to her existence, a sun dropped by my shoulder, orbit and a world revolving. She rolls said shoulder and I imagine it feels good from the small noise she makes. She is closer to me than I think is proper. To my dismay, there is an urge to hold and caress. But I hold back. Not that kind of guy.

Our silence and the city's hum are cut by a terrible roar that shakes windows and opens pavement like bloody claws. I grimace at the noise. I do not like it.

Alizarin does.

There is more small noise coming from her as the sound hits her in its avalanche echo. I think I see her lick her lips, but that might be a trick of the light. A few blocks over I see the white light spill from the corner. More lights come on from the buildings, the lucky few who could sleep suddenly robbed of that ability.

"If you want to look," I say, "That one on the corner should have a better view. I don't think it can make it down this street. Too narrow."

The insect friend is still good at carrying and the other roof is still good for perching. I think it almost drops me in some form of borrowed excitement.

It is the squad car, all 6 wheels digging into the asphalt, the engine from demon forge clawing noise through the still of the night. Might be for me. Might be for Violence. Might be for nothing at all. Just a show of force to the people. They are protected and safe from all the bad things in the night, the thing with a bat, the thing with booms, the thing with heat and insect legs, all of them are nothing but a bad dream. We can all go back to bed, with a tip and a nod and a sorry for the disturbance.

"That's the squad car," I say, "Not a lot of mobility on the other side, so they have that. Really fun to drive."

Awe, sheer awe in her gaze as the words leave my mouth, lips parted and eyes wide beneath the devil leather.

"You've driven that thing," she whispers. I nod.

It is a tank, a behemoth, a gargantuan testimony to steel and the assembly line. Smooth plates at angles just sharp enough to cut. Thick rubber and heavy black tinted glass. It is all that is heavy and commanding. They have the blue one out tonight, midnight sky with the scattered streetlamps making the stars. Whoever is inside flashes the lights and blares the horn as they ride beneath our perch. I feel the ground quake almost enough to throw me off the ledge.

"Yeah," I say, "Deadman let me once when I first started out. It was then that I decided that I didn't' want my license. That thing is terrifying. Kind of has me all jittery just thinking about it."

"Wait, he let you?"

"Yeah. Met up at Picciotto Park upstate for 'team building' one time and he let me take it off roading. That was a good weekend."

"The villains and the heroes here have 'team building.' This place is nuts. Why would anyone think that's a good idea?"

It takes me a moment to put all the misconceptions together in a neat little statement.

"Oh boy, you don't know. Open secret, sort of. I used to be on the other side. Had my own little falling out with Solar and Sunday decided that I was worth keeping around and burying hatchets. Gave me my place even."

She thinks and I almost hear the gears turn and put together all the pieces.

"You're Minuteman," she whispers.

"And Adagio, if you remember that one. Part of the reason I switched."

"Yeah, that was a bad one. But Minuteman, that, wow. Fuck me."

I tilt my head back and sigh. I have to.

"I'll have to ask Hannah. Not off the table with her as it turns out."

"I mean. If that's what it takes."

I am honestly somewhat surprised at the willingness. But pleased, absolutely pleased.

"Considering that the good guys are running about, I think I will call it a night. You up for it or..."

I do not get to finish the implied question. Alizarin has already summoned our ride.

---

Alessandra clucks her tongue and shakes her head at the wall in front of her. It marks my home with 3 simple words. But it does not satisfy the critic among my presence.

"It's like you don't even care," she sighs, "It's all so bad. The lettering, the spacing, the drips. Who taught you? Wait, don't answer. I know. It was no one. No one at all. No one has the patience to deal with this level of absolute lack of talent."

"The art is never the statement," I say, "It's just the presence of it. That's the message."

"Art needs to have some modicum of talent to it, though. Like, not even a lot. Everything can't be a masterpiece. The internet has kind of proven that bad things have merit. But not terrible things. Like you."

"Is this supposed to endear me? Insulting me like this? Because it kind of is. I don't know why. It says something about me, but I'm not sure I want to go down that route right now. I am home and that means no one is allowed to be mean to me. If you're mean to me, I will force you to go home."

"I will allow the drips. I can see that as a form of stylistic choice on the part of the artist. Not to my aesthetic sensibilities, but within the purview of expression. Can I come in now? Despite what you may think, I do get cold sometimes."

"Like now?"

"Not really. But still. Inside is better than outside."

"You know, I agree. In a lot of ways."

I may not be able to see it, but I can feel the rolling eyes. Another sign that the fairer sex is interested. Arousal should always be mixed with the frustration of being aroused. It brings a nice energy to the confrontation and the act of give and take is always a good vent for that said frustration.

I roll open my shutter door. It is loud, but I do not mind. The foreman's office that serves as my bedroom has enough distant and wall to deaden the noise. But Hannah is awake anyway.

"Took you long enough," she purrs.

Lounging, she is lounging on a rug dragged from one corner of the floor to the other, in front of the space designated as my living room. And she is naked, mostly, save for a leather jacket. My leather jacket, one of the spares. Her legs bend and flex, drawing my eye up the line to her own rather pleasing ass, before that terrible cloth cuts off more of her skin from my gaze.

"I was getting kind of lonely, you know," she sighs, "And I almost had to take care of it all by myself. But since you're here, well, I think you can help me out. You like helping me out, right?"

"Hi," says Alizarin.

The complete and utter shock that shatters the room knocks the wind out of me. Hannah immediately rolls over to face us, exposing her chest. I say nothing. There is nothing to say. I simply stare at the gap to her skin and take it all for myself. I am looking and gazing and staring because I don't know what else to do. Every high function of my brain is still, so I go with the easiest path. Hannah is naked. That is good. Any other context will be parsed out later.

"So, um," Alessandra continues, "Do I go, or do we talk this out?"

To whatever credit it goes in, Hannah decides that the best move to go through is a slow, languid stretch on her legs with shifting muscle and bone. The bend eventually takes her up to standing and then around to the couch.