Bogart & Sons

“The ocean is just outside,” Grandfather wheedles. “You should go catch some sun. You’re pale as a ghost.”
“I recently almost became a ghost,” I reply, not looking up from the biochemistry textbook. He bought it because it’s the only thing I’ve asked for.
“You’ll get sick, cooped up inside,” he tries one last time.
I’m sick from the coma. I’m sick with grief. I’m sick of people, but nature depresses me worse than society does.
Nature is happy and vibrant, and doesn’t care that the last time I let it call me out, it killed whom I loved most.

SWITCHBLADE STHENO – A PETTY CRIMINAL
OR A VIABLE THREAT TO SOCIETY?
article by Clark Kent
If you make an omelet, you need to break a few eggs – that seems to be the philosophy of the vigilantes. The streets of our cities have become a battlefield for people gifted with superhuman abilities. The latest newcomer to the shadowy scene of alleged superheroes appears to be less than heroic, for she has broken many eggs indeed. More on pg. 5.
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I put down the newspaper and dig into my breakfast. And because I had to, for irony’s sake, it is an omelet.

At some point it comes to this. It’s akin to an implementation of martial law. A terrorist or a freedom fighter, a good guy or a bad guy – none of it means anything.
All the context I need to make a decision is:

He’s armed and threatening to kill people.
He’s desperate.
He’s a danger to me.

I’m not a terrorist or a freedom fighter. I’m not an arm of law. What I am, however, is a rational being, and in my mind that authorises me to become judge, jury and executioner before I am the one judged and executed.

“No, you don’t understand,” the woman mumbles. “He’s a good boy. Too gentle to hurt a fly!” She sobs into a handkerchief.
Her son is thirty-seven, single and unemployed. He lives in her basement, collects action figures and trolls the internet. Two weeks ago he accidentally found out that his mother has been ill for some time and is going to die soon.
He suffered a psychotic break. We’ve found him wrist-deep into his fourth victim.
I would feel sorry for her, but watching her passively watch the police take him away… I can tell he comes by it honestly.

Genet claimed to have no family.
His funeral is overrun with his siblings, their children and grandchildren.
“He was a government specialist,” a man playing with car-keys says to his wife. “He must have been swimming in dough.”
“Maybe he left it to some of your cousins,” she suggests. “You’ll find out from the will.”
I watch the nephews and nieces, grand-nephews and grand-nieces… and decide that I’ll be able to put my teacher’s money to a better use than they would. Genet gave me his account information for a reason – most likely because he really enjoyed imagining their reaction.

“Bogart & Sons Security Service,” Mithra says into the phone. “No, you cannot speak with Mr Bogart.”
The rest of the conversation is predictable.
“I am the manager.”
I preemptively remove all glass from her desk.
“What can I do?” Mithra snorts. She hangs up.
“Put a switchblade into his eye before he blinks?” I suggest.
She laughs, and the tension is broken.
This happens. We are two women trying to make it in a male-dominated business sphere. The easiest way is through the huge blind spots of male conceit: that's why we named the agency the way we did.

I deposit the little girl into the arms of the distraught wife. She hugs the child to her chest, both sobbing and snuffling. I quickly switch with Mithra. Mithra is better with people.
“Thank you!” the woman cries and pulls Mithra into a sort of three-way hug. “You saved my baby! Thank you so much!”
I meet the husband’s eyes and tacitly direct him to the office. It’s satisfying to do good deeds and save kids’ lives, but we still have to eat. Besides, he’s got his daughter back. What do a few thousand Euros mean in comparison to that?

I sip the martini.
“We were kids,” I say. It’s true. It also means nothing. “Like Romeo and Juliet. Addled enough to believe that ‘love’ was some kind of valid reason to fuck up our lives. So we did. Or I did. He mostly just died.”
I swallow the olive and shrug. “We met up out of country where my folks couldn’t get at us. Went on a walk through the picturesque country-side one morning. Got less picturesque with the snake bites. Afterwards, I just remember waking up from two months of coma to be told he didn’t make it.”

“Guess what I’ve got?” I tease, walking into the office.
Mithra glances up from her comic book. “What?”
“Business cards.” I put a set in front of her and wait for the verdict. They’re not really eye-catching, but I don’t think that’s what we’re going for. They’re elegant and to the point.
Mithra doubtfully looks at me. “Business cards. Next you’ll be hiring billboards along the highways to advertise.”
We might have to. The agency is new, and it will take some time before the word of mouth spreads.
“People don’t know about us yet, but they will. And soon.”

“I think we’ve found her,” Mithra says tightly, and sends me ahead into the greenhouse.
The stink warns me in time to prevent me from losing my breakfast.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen a dead body. Killing is included in my job description. I’ve see death agony and what it does to people – convulsions, involuntarily relaxation of sphincters, arterial sprays… Occasionally, death is even uglier than life.
Like right now.
The victim was a young woman. She’s been dead for days, and left in a place resembling a tropical forest. You can imagine what the cadaver looks like.