Don’t Panic

The 1984 Toyota Corolla rushed down the twisting mountain road, rolling heavily through every corner. With the wheel in his hand, the older boy wanted nothing more than to send his brother into a panic. The younger of the two refused to be moved, he instead grinned at the squeal of tires and urged for greater speed. The two laughed and cheered as the small sedan creaked and rattled. It was being pushed far beyond what it should be able to handle in its current state. Shot suspension, rusty frame, bald tires. But to them, it performed magnificently. Every road a grand prix, every apex the perfect corner. Outside, inside, outside. Heel and toe.

The corners linked together, they must be taken at just the right speed. Too slow and it becomes a Sunday drive, too fast…

Gravel spat out as the car ran wide. Two tires found themselves off road, dragging the car into a rapid spin. Road, rock, creek, road. The vision from the driver’s seat alternated as the four thin economy tires left smoking black trails. The black marks wove an intricate pattern that looked to end at a wall of rocks.

The boys both stared in a silent focus out of the passenger window. The car skidded sideways, shaved past the rocks, leaving nothing but a scratch on the rear bumper, and barreled towards its new destination, a sharp drop into a deep river.

Smoking tires hit grass, the leading rubber ripped from their metal cores, leaving two steel rings in their place. The bare rims dug into the shoulder of the road, abruptly halting the sedan’s crab walk, tipping the car up. The view changed. Balanced on two wheels, the brothers stared mutely out of the passenger window. A long drop into wet doom. Water flowed lazily in the deep beneath them, unimpressed by the excitement above. Neither boy screamed nor showed the slightest bit of panic, they both somehow knew that no matter their actions, their mistakes were already made. No take-backs.

A moment passed as the car stayed balanced, not falling in either direction, something out of a circus act. Then, weightlessness and a jolt. The sedan returned to the asphalt right side up, bounced on the shot suspension, then laid still.

The brothers looked to one another. They still lived. They weren’t going to die. But when their father found out what they did to the car, that could undoubtedly change. Both boys’ expressions turned to shock, then horror as they scrambled out and began panicking.

Now, seemed an appropriate time.

The Beat

Dale twirled his standard-issued police baton around his finger and caught it with a quick snap of the hand. It felt good. Weighty. Simple. It was made of a wood that was as dense as iron and felt as tough as it too. If he’d known anything about carpentry he’d know it was made out of a wormroot tree. The roots slowly burrowed their way through hard soil and rocks in search of water. This made for excellent, if a bit cruel, baton material.

He didn’t care what they were made of. He didn’t care much about anything at all that wasn’t simple and uncomplicated. That was probably why he had done such a poor job in the Guild. After his father’s connections brought him into the upper echelons, he’d failed as a district manager and was demoted. He’d then failed as a store manager, as a clerk, and finally as a thug who’s job was to drive unwanted individuals out of local businesses. It was all just a bit too much for Dale. Too many people asking him questions, too many decisions that needed deciding. When he finished a long hard day of work, he’d come back the next day only to face yet another barrage of questions he needed to know the answers to, and decisions that needed to be made.

Looking back, ‘accidentally’ blowing up that artificer’s shop was the best idea he’d ever had. Yes, his father was absolutely furious, and also yes, the duke had wanted to hang him for the damage done to the city, but in the end, he’d escaped with a lengthy dressing down, and then sent off to be a basic footman with the city’s police regiment. His father was still adamant he should have a higher position, but thankfully his demands had been refused.

The policeman’s hall didn’t quite know what to do with him. Eventually they gave him a simple beat and let him loose on the city. No questions, no demands, just good, honest police work and the streets. The streets were simple. He strode about, chatted with locals and took the free foods and drinks from shopkeepers who wished to have more police presence, and hit the occasional street rat or thug with his lovely baton. Best job in the world, this.

Dale paused in the alley to toss his baton in the air. Whirl, catch, black.

He awoke to a headache that seemed to echo back and forth across the inside of his skull. It lingered heavily against a lump at the base of his neck. Dale groaned and touched it, retracting his hand with a hiss. Dale turned quickly, searching for his assailants, but quickly doubled over in pain. His head ached as if it had been split open. Judging by the dark splotch of wet blood on his hands, that very well might be the case.

The sun had set, and he was shaking from the cold. He pulled his coat over his shoulders only to find it missing. As was his badge, his hat, his pants, his boots, and to his horror, his baton! He fumbled in the dark, but found nothing except snow, grit, and the cobbles beneath himself.

“Bastards!” he shouted into the alley. Nobody answered.

He held his head and tried to think. He was… in the west of the city, just past Butcher’s Row. He was currently in his unmentionables and it was night. A flicker of worry washed up. This area wasn’t safe at night, but he didn’t have anything for thieves to take. The real problem was his dress. He’d faced embarrassment across his career, being shouted at, being demoted, but he’d never shown himself in such a vulgar manner.

He shook himself. Absolutely not! In public? The scandal of it! He picked through the trash at the sides of the alley till he found… something he could wear. From the discarded paper, muck, and rubbish, he found a bit of fabric, stained with the grime of the world. He pulled it free and found in his hands a coat. It was once a nice article of clothing, yet now was worn, torn, and burnt at spots.

Dale pulled the coat on and felt instantly better. It was, despite appearances, a very good coat. It even fit him quite well. He fastened the front to not expose himself and marched off into the night, barefoot and bloody, back to the Police Hall.