Topper can’t even hear the engine. Hims Chapel is a very small, and very dull, place. This evening is already the third best time the Sheriff has ever had. And, just like the stripper that Topper is using to work the pedals for him, this night is frighteningly young.
After taking out the parking meters Topper overcorrects, hops a curb, mangles a stop sign and then manages to wrestle the rig back onto to the road.
“Whattya call this thing?” asks Topper.
“Suicide Knob,” answers Clarence. He should know, it’s his truck.
“I LIKE IT!” cries Topper.
From the reasonable end of town, Agnes watches the truck disappear. Coins from the parking meters rain down on the pavement, spinning and shimmering to a rest. As the sound of the truck fades into the distance Agnes asks the night, “How did this happen?”
The night does not answer. But in small towns, boredom is always to blame.
So it was that Topper, Clarence Johnson, and Sheriff Cooper wound up drinking together in a small sad strip club off Alabama State highway 109. They bought each other lap dances, talked the coarse language of men and generally enjoyed themselves.
After he was pretty sure the Sheriff was drunk enough to tell the truth, Topper asks, “So whattya know about this Rielly woman?” Despite intoxication, Topper was still very much on the job.
“She owns most of the county. But I never did like her though. Rich. And not just rich, thinks she’s better than everybody else. Looks down on people,” slurs Sheriff Cooper.
“I hate people who look down on me,” says Topper. They all laughed. “Except for her,” Topper says, pointing at one of the women, “she can look down on me anytime.”
“You a’right boy, you all right,” says Sheriff Cooper. “I like a fella knows how to enjoy himself.” Glasses of brown liquor clink together and dive down throats.
“It’s just a shame you’re only half a man,” says Clarence, needling Topper out of pure boredom.
“Half a man? Sheriff, you need to arrest this man. He’s got bullshit pouring out of his mouth. Can’t be sanitary.” The men roar in laughter.
“No, no, I like you and everything little man, but it’s not like you can do an honest days work,” says Clarence.
“Honest day’s work!” cries Topper. “I’m a friggin lawyer. If I did an honest days work, I’d be out of a job.” Topper points to the sheriff, “And so would he!” More laughter.
Topper indicates a half-naked women walking by. “Finally, they bring out the good looking ones.” The other men grunt their agreement. The women have not changed at all. The liquor has just worked its sacred and profane magic.
Clarence still won’t let it go. “Yeah, you’d have to be a lawyer. Me? I made my way by driving a truck. Then I bought a truck. Then I bought another truck and got somebody to drive the first one. I’m a self-made man.”
“Not me,” says the sheriff as he stares at pair of giant breasts, “My uncle got me this job.”
Clarence points at Topper. His finger floats and bobs in time with the slow waltz of alcohol sieving through his liver. “But you, little man, you couldn’t drive a truck. No way.” He holds his hand out over the floor, “You must be at least this tall to ride this ride.”
The Sheriff laughs a little too loud.
“Whattya mean I can’t drive a truck?” Topper says, suddenly very serious.
“No way. No how.”
“You mean like one of those trucks you’ve got out front? I can’t drive one of those trucks? Is that what you mean?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“You gonna put some money behind that, or are you all talk?” Topper asks.
This gets the Sheriff’s attention. “Boys, boys, I’m afraid I can’t let you gamble in this county, unless I’m in on it. I got 500 says the midget can’t drive.”
“I got five thousand says the midget can’t drive. If anybody will cover it,” says Clarence, thinking that he is calling Topper’s bluff.
Topper smiles and pulls a gigantic roll of bills out of his pocket. “I’ll cover all the action.”
“There ain’t no way in hell,” says Clarence.
“Ah, bullshit. I’ll drive your Tonka truck, all I need is a good pair of legs,” Topper says, slapping the nearest stripper on the thigh. He peels off a couple hundred and says, “C’mon Darlin’, now I’m going to sit on your lap for a while.”
Chapter Nineteen
Excelsior Fights the Hurricane
This time it is a hurricane. Whatever, thinks Excelsior. He is still pissed at that snotty waiter from that French restaurant. He’s ready to uncork on just about anybody or anything. It’s odd though, in 70 years they’ve never asked him to fight a hurricane.
Excelsior isn’t sure he can pull it off. But so what? If he fails, maybe they’ll stop calling him all the time. And then a black thought – What if he messes up on purpose? Just drops the ball? Would it be over? Could he take a night off? Love a woman? Have a family? Would they take the pager back? Maybe throwing the game is the smart thing to do. Because if he stops this hurricane, will they call him for every hurricane? But deep inside, he knows he can’t throw the game.
Nobody understands. Nobody appreciates his situation. All those crazy bastards with gadgets and powers coming out of the woodwork. And he has to stop them. He doesn’t know how his powers work, not really. And he certainly doesn’t how some freaky alien ray gun works. And what about chemical warfare? His skin might be impenetrable but what about his lungs? The whole thing is risky. Excelsior meant higher, not indestructible. Not necessarily. And when he gets hit, or shot or bombed, it hurts. Excelsior is a good deal more nervous than most people know.
Last year, he had been hit with a beam weapon and was unable to feel his leg for two months. And then, after the “incident” with Sinestro, he forgot all the words he knew that began with the letter ‘r’. He’s still not sure he has them all back yet. At least he no longer locks up when somebody asks him if he needs a receipt.
Coming across the panhandle, Excelsior slows a little. Daytona rushes past him on the left. Orlando on his right. He skims the ground at 150 feet. Less chance of getting messed up in air traffic down here. The worst he might do is rattle some windows. He decides he doesn’t care. A flick of a thought and he has broken the sound barrier. He can feel the air compress in a wedge in front of him. What is a mere mathematical consideration for students of aerodynamics is something he can actually feel with his fingertips. It’s good. He’s going to need to move a lot of air tonight.
Thinking it might be useful, he rips the top off a water tower in Hollywood, FL. But who knows? It’s not like there’s a playbook for this kind of thing. He grips the wedge of metal so tightly that steel seeps between his fingers. Then he sets his heroic jaw and accelerates.
The sound of the wind whipping past the edges of the metal is an angry, ceaseless ripping. He loves the sound. He is mighty. A god set to do battle with the elements. He gives it more speed. Below and behind him the windows of a strip mall shatter as he passes
As Miami Beach disappears beneath him, he tries to remember which way hurricanes spin. Clockwise? Counter? Does it matter? He decides to head directly into the wind and batter the storm into submission. Should he start from the bottom or the top? He decides it is best to cut it off at the knees like a quarterback you want to cripple. Get angry. Get tough. Time to end this thing’s career.
Even as he amps himself up, he feels the air get colder and thicker. It takes a greater effort to maintain his speed. The sky and the sea become the same shade of grey. Visibility drops to zero. And then he hears the howl.
