Paradigm Shift
Return of the Angels

Paradigm: A set of assumptions, concepts, and values that constitute a way of viewing reality for the community that shares them. The prevailing view of things.

    The movement from an old to a new paradigm is called a paradigm shift. The shift may occur slowly over many years, or it might occur abruptly as the result of conscious analysis and evaluation of the current paradigm. Take, for example, the Copernican revolution. The old paradigm held that Earth was the center of God's perfect creation. The realization that Earth revolved around the sun and was not the center of the universe changed the prevailing view of the world. Galileo's further discoveries sparked the imaginations that eventually ignited a radical revolution of thought.

     Several of the major paradigm shifts in human understanding can trace their roots to a handful of forward-thinking people, but the greatest paradigm shift of all owes its beginnings to one unlikely man.

Paradigm I
Chapter 1

    The spasm began somewhere near his spine, pushing him from behind, sending him scrambling into the open. The Somali mob spotted him, and chased after him with an angry fit of fire. Anticipating the fatal shock with a now familiar dread, Hank lowered his head and charged toward his target. White-hot tracers skipped along the walls, whipping past his ears with a vicious hiss. Hank's eyes fixed on the soldier a few meters away. His face was blackened and burnt. He didn't see Hank charging toward him. Hank's eyes narrowed on the man's face. The world beyond the space between them ceased to exist.
    Helpless, he watched himself act on a will completely unknown to him. He tried to scream, but his voice was silent. His boots pounded the ground as if in slow motion; each step weighed with expectation. The tips of his fingers reached out to grab the blacked figure.
    Only inches away, in the last possible instant before contact, Hank screamed aloud, ripping him awake. His body jerked to life with his fingers clawing the air. A few moments passed before his eyes reluctantly drifted to the digits glowing on the alarm clock. He knew exactly what time it was without looking: his body was still programmed to military time.
    Knowing that sleep-real sleep-was out of the question, Hank stretched a finger to the radio and began acting out his day. The voice of Howard Stern filled the room, but Hank didn't register a word he was saying. He remained stuck, his thoughts lingering over his dreams. The nightmares were so vivid and full of sensation, so unlike his real world. He felt almost sorry that the horrible dream was over; he even felt an odd comfort in knowing he would have the same dream again and again.
    He stared vacantly into the void until Stern's words rang out with sudden clarity: it was October third. The date struck home like a dart. Hank's eyes shot anxiously to the wall calendar still stuck on July. Dates and figures ran through his mind-the math was all too easy. Three years to the day.
    A nauseous cramp gripped his stomach as he brooded over the date. He swung out of bed and hopped toward the bathroom. The pain began immediately. It crept up his thighs and set fire to his spine. The first rays of sunlight began their invasion through the seams of the room's only window. The early warmth promised a beautiful autumn morning, a treat for most people in the fog-plagued Bay Area. Today, girls would be showing off their tans and people would be wearing shorts. But the pleasures of a sunny day were lost on Hank. He didn't own any shorts.
    He grabbed a pair of sweatpants from a dresser and spun around to sit on the bed. He slipped into the sweatpants and stood to balance on his left foot. The empty pant-leg hung lifelessly over the stump of his right leg. The extra fabric swung whip-like, back and forth, as he hopped back to the dresser and climbed into a plain white T-shirt.
    He returned to the bed with a sock and felt a roll of fat on his gut as he bent over. Alarmed, he straightened and ran a hand over his abdominal muscles. The roll of flesh was gone, but he felt soft somehow. His eyes jumped to the nightstand, where an empty bottle of Vodka stood surrounded by pill vials.
    Hank stood for a moment, probing the firm grooves of his stomach, then grabbed his Walkman and shoved the earphones into place. He found his prosthetic lying on the kitchen floor. He strapped the leg to his thigh and began looking for his other shoe while his attention shifted to the banter coming from the radio in his ear.
    He'd been hooked on Howard Stern's radio show since he was a teen growing up in Brooklyn. He'd even paid a guy to send him tapes while he was overseas. Now he listened to the entire four-hour broadcast. It was the only time he allowed himself to laugh. Losing himself in the show helped him climb the grueling city streets on his morning jogs. He had learned to chase the runner's high as a means of combating his pain. Eventually, exertion overwhelmed the pain in his phantom shin, and for a brief time Hank enjoyed a respite in the feeling of normalcy.
    Today, the comfort faded just as he took the last smoothly mechanical strides back to his doorstep. His fingers poked around his midsection until he was convinced he'd left the bulge of fat back on the Embarcadero. As he leaned over to stretch, he caught sight of some freshly painted gangland scribbling on the steps leading to his front door. A sudden rage washed over him as the Walkman fell from his grip and shattered on the ground.
    The earphones swung from his ears as Hank yelled, kicking the broken Walkman, sending batteries skittering down the steps. He wet his fingers in the fresh paint and glanced up to see an elderly neighbor staring at him. Hank felt quick hatred for the old man and all the other neighbors who tolerated the constant tagging. Their brightly painted row houses were covered with red and blue graffiti. Hank's fury-filled stare made the old man cringe and quickly turn away.
    Hank fantasized about catching the neighborhood punks as he knelt to collect his broken radio. Anger and humiliation pounded his temples. The phantom pain in his absent calf crept back with vengeance. Once again, it felt as if his missing calf muscle was engorged with blood and about to explode.
    The inner debate began as soon as he mounted his front steps. He began listing all the reasons why he shouldn't extinguish the pain with a fistful of Vicodin and a stiff drink. He tried to reassure himself that the pain was all in his head-that it was all a some cruel illusion, but the sensation eating him alive was all too real.
    It wasn't yet ten in the morning, but Hank had made his decision- he had today's excuse. Today, the mindless disrespect of the neighborhood trash, yesterday the bike messenger who flipped him off, every day brought a fresh excuse. Hank locked the door behind him and found the pills where he'd thrown them the night before. He poured four Vicodin into his palm and let another two fall to the countertop. He washed the pills back with a mix of vodka and cranberry juice and used the empty glass to crush the two remaining pills. A razor appeared from the silverware drawer and Hank delicately chopped the crushed pills into a fine powder. He drew the powder into two thin lines and stared down at them as he refilled his glass.
    Hank swirled the drink in his hand. His eyes scanned the kitchen; looking for the straw he'd used the day before, when they came to rest on the phone. He didn't know why his mind lingered on the phone, but as fate would have it, the phone began to ring.
    Hank eyed the phone suspiciously. He let it ring- sure it was only a sales call. His number was unlisted and he couldn't think of anyone he cared to talk to. The sixth ring struck an annoyed nerve and Hank angrily grabbed at the phone.
    "Hello."
    "Hello- Is this Henry Patrick?"
    "How'd you get this number?" Hank growled.
    "I'm sorry, I'm looking for a man named Hank, Hank Foster."
    Hank paused. Something in the voice triggered a flood of memory, taking him back in time.
    "Hank… is that you?"
    Silence. Hank nearly slid the phone back into its cradle.
    "Hank are you there?"
    Hank drew a deep breath. "Who's this?"
    "Hank! It's Bill, Bill Kemp."
    Hank's mind's eye focused on the young soldier with the blackened face. "Billy?"
    "Ya, it's me! How ya doing Hank?"
    The date- October 3rd flashed an alarm in his senses. His thoughts raced back to the moment he first met Lieutenant William Kemp of the Rangers. "How'd ya get this number?"
    "Believe me it wasn't easy. You've really fallen off the radar." Kemp's voice remained elated, grating on Hank's already foul mood. "The Army doesn't even know where to find you."
    "Ya well…"
    "Are you in San Francisco? That's my home town you know."
    "Ya, I remember."
    "I'm in Oakland right now. Do you think we could get together? I could swing into the City."
    "Get together? How did you find me?"
    "Can't a guy look up an old friend?" Bill's tone was much too casual, reminding Hank of the smooth-talking kid he had grown to know in the German hospital.
    "Look Billy if you're calling because you want to talk about Mogadishu… I don't think that's such a good idea."
    "What? No, that's not it at all. I mean, I do want to talk to you about something, but its has nothing to do with… to do with anything like that."
    "Oh ya, why now? Today some kinda birthday Billy?"
    "Hank I swear. I didn't realize today is the third. I've been trying to track you down for months. The date is just, just a coincidence."
    Hank had learned to suspect all coincidence. "Why have you been tracking me down? What's up?"
    "There is something I'd like to ask you, but I'd rather do it in person."
    Hank chewed a thumbnail, staring off into the void. "Business of pleasure?"
    "Business, but for you I'm sure it will be a pleasure."
    "Oh ya?"
    "Don't get the wrong idea, I don't want to open any old wounds here." Bill lowered his tone. "I've got this situation you may be able to help me with. Strictly professional. So, can we get together?"
    "Alright Billy." Hank glanced toward the drugs strewn out beneath him. "I guess I've got some spare time."
    "Great, give me directions and I'll pick you up."
    Hank hung up the phone only partially convinced Bill wasn't interested in indulging in any psychodrama. He seemed anxious. The phrase pleasure held an ominous salience in its tone. He knew what Bill considered a pleasure for him could be seen as repulsive to normal men. A flash of anger washed over him as he considered the possibility that Bill needed him for some callous dirty work.
    The feeling was an instinctive reflex after years of countless recruitments into pleasurable acts, but the thoughts were quickly tossed aside. Hank knew Bill wasn't the type to get involved in any really shady business, and he was convinced Bill knew he was more than a cold-blooded assassin.
    Hank shook away his revulsion, his embarrassment at the thought of a reunion with Bill and walked away from the phone to sit on the couch. He had no desire to share his pathetic state with anyone, especially William Kemp.
    Hank closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. His thoughts drifted back to that life-altering day in Mogadishu. Bill's face didn't appear to him right away, but the sounds and smells of combat came rushing back, just as they had countless times before. His memories of the Bakara Market ghettos were marked by the ear-shattering explosions of rockets and grenades. The distinctive report from AK-47s counted time in his head. The symphony of thought grew, and the world outside faded as if he were stepping into a dream. The press of deadly violence surrounded him. He could virtually feel his legs carrying him across the razor's edge of survival once more.
    Bill was there, his blackened, burnt face unrecognizable. His back was pressed against a mud-brick wall; the butt of his rifle was pulled into his chin in the proper army firing position. He was pumping rounds down the alley into the mob of Somali militiamen. The young Ranger was oblivious to the danger he faced. Rounds smacked into the wall behind him, showering him with red dust. Glowing phosphorous tracers ricocheted along the walls. A fellow Ranger lay dying at his feet; the body jerked and exploded with crimson puffs as bullets tore into him.
    A crescendo of unintelligible screaming cascaded over Hank's thoughts. Men's voices were straining and breaking under the stress of combat. The violent, bloody images swirled in a montage of pain and confusion. Once again Hank could see the brilliant white orbs of Bill's eyes as he grabbed him and flung him to safety.
    It was his last act of heroism- a moment relived time and again, distorting reality and meaning each time it passed. Hank covered his face with his hands. His thoughts spun with possibilities and slowly clearing memories. He thought back to time spent with Bill in Germany after getting wounded. He didn't know whether it was the intensity surrounding their acquaintance or simply the virtue of Bill's personality, but even then, when he was at his lowest, he found himself connecting with the young soldier.
    Bill possessed that rare charm, a certain charismatic power that enabled him to talk anybody into anything. Although not seriously wounded, Bill managed to convince his commanding officer to fudge documents allowing him to follow Hank and the other seriously wounded to the army hospital in Germany. Bill only suffered from minor powder burns and temporary hearing loss, but he feigned brain injury and amnesia to stay on the critical list. His performances in the hospital were nothing short of brilliant. His comical fits and mock seizures were responsible for Hank's first laughter after losing his leg. Bill was the only one Hank found worthy of sharing his time with in the days and weeks to follow.
    Hank took in Spartan emptiness of his home and wished he had the presence of mind to arrange to meet Bill elsewhere. He didn't want to see the pity on Bill's face. He didn't want to be caught living like this, but now the moment seemed inevitable. Bill was on his way. He contemplated cleaning up a bit but he only managed to tidy up the mess of Vicodin before there was a knock at the door.
    Hank pulled the door open to a flood of sunlight. The man standing in the doorway looked more like a figure off a fashion billboard than the kid he remembered from Germany. At first glance he wasn't convinced it was Bill at all. He had to give the face beneath the sandy blond locks a closer look.
    "How ya doing, Hank?"
    Hank squinted hard against the sunlight beaming from over Bill's shoulder before taking his outstretched hand.
    "Hey Billy."
    Bill stepped through the open door, still gripping Hank's hand, and then wrapped him in an embrace, patting him on the back with manly affection. "It's good to see you."
    "Yeah, you too Billy." Hank waited uncomfortably for Bill to end his embrace. Bill finally pushed back to arm's length and smiled at him, and all Hank could think to say was; "Damn, I barely recognized you with all that hair."
    Bill beamed at him. "Well, you haven't changed a bit." His eyes remained locked with Hank's until, after a long moment, he broke off to glance past his shoulder as if to invite himself inside.
    Hank found himself suddenly struggling to keep from looking down to his foot. He ran his free hand over his crew cut and attempted a smile. "Civilian life agrees with ya?"
    "How'd ya know I'm out?" Bill smiled casually, as if it were only natural for him to be standing there.
    "Look's like it's been a few months since you've seen your last sit-up." Hank returned Bill's smile with a wink.
    "Ha! Same old Hank." Bill shook his head good-naturedly, giving Hank's hand a final squeeze.
    Hank stepped back to let Bill inside. Bill's presence was forcing Hank to see his home through the eyes of another, and what he saw disturbed him. An awkward silence passed before Hank limped into the kitchen, stared down at the bottles of alcohol, then turned to face Bill with his chin thrust forward. "So what's going on, Billy?"
    "I see you took my advice. How do you like living in San Francisco?" Bill made a halfhearted gesture to the bright, sunny day shut out beyond the door.
    Hank continued to press his stare. He wasn't interested in making small talk; he was looking for any subtle tell during the awkward silence, but Bill's face was a mask of good cheer.
    "My parents still live downtown." Bill unbuttoned his jacket and appeared to make himself at home. "I still love it here."
    "Grab a seat." Hank gestured to the only chair not covered in reading material. "Can I get you something?"
    "I'll have one of those cocktails, if you're offering." Bill slid onto the chair, careful not to disturb a stack of books.
    A sick feeling settled in Hank's guts as he strode past Bill into the kitchen. He could feel his eyes scanning the emptiness of his home behind his back. "So tell me, how'd ya find me Billy?"
    "Like I said, it wasn't easy. You pulled a real disappearing act." Bill accepted a drink without meeting his eyes. "So I looked up your father."
    Hank's brow arched. "My father?"
    "He gave me this number months ago, I've tried it a hundred times but you've never answered."
    "So this must be something important." A hint of anger flared in Hank's voice.
    "Well …"
    "If you came here to make yourself feel better somehow, you've made a mistake."
    Bill raised a hand to check him as if he anticipated the hostility. "I didn't come here for any of that. I want to talk to you, and yes, it is something important."
    "And the fact that yesterday was October third has nothing to do with it?"
    "No." Bill's face turned solemnly earnest. "I had almost given up on this number." Bill paused, cupping his drink between his hands. "I know we're not good old buddies from way back, but we've got history. Apart from the obvious"-Bill pointed to his heart, acknowledging he owed his life to Hank-"The short time we spent together made a profound impact on my life. I'm not the same person you last saw in Germany."
    "So you're doing well for yourself, is that it? And maybe you thought you'd spread it around a little?"
    "No. That's not it at all." Bill dipped his head a little lower, as if he'd known it would come to this. "But in a way, you might be right. Everything I have, I owe to you."
    "You don't owe me a damn thing!"
    "I'm not talking about what you did to save my life. I'm talking about how you changed the way I look at the world, how I've changed my life. Because of you I decided to do something with my life. Something meaningful. I'm going to make things happen … and I want you to help me."
    "Me?" Hank purposefully looked around the room, then back to Bill and his thousand-dollar suit. "What can I do for you?"
    "I want you to take me seriously. I didn't want to jump right into to things with you, but I don't want you thinking I'm here for pity's sake either. I know you better than that, and I had hoped you thought better of me too."
    "All right, Billy." Hank unfolded his arms and lifted his glass. "I'm listening. Why are we having this sit-down together? As you can see … I'm a very busy man."
    The broad smile reappeared on Bill's face, and he raised his glass to match Hank in a toast. "Salud!"
    "Uh-rah!"
    "Uh-rah!"
    "Down to business then. I was hoping to feel you out a bit first." Bill paused long enough to take a long drink.
    "Let's be up-front. I'm not into playing games. What kinda things were you hoping to find out?" Hank's tone remained serious. This wasn't the first time he'd been approached in shady conversation, and he didn't feel like going through the motions.
    "Well, for starters, I don't really know much about what you've been into since you left the army." Bill let slip his first puzzled expression as he took in the bleak surroundings. "Are you working? I know you can't be living off of what the army is paying you."
    "You might say that I haven't found the right line of work yet."
    "Have you looked into interior design?" Bill laughed, blowing waves off the top of his glass. "You might be missing your calling."
    "Could probably use a lady's touch, eh?" Hank smiled, relaxing slightly.
    "I've got to tell you …" Bill grimaced as he gulped down another mouthful of vodka. "I'm more than a little surprised. I thought a guy like you would be cleaning up in an area like this. There's big money out here."
    "I didn't take well to working in an office. I've got what the doctors call an attitude problem."
    "No shit. But how are you paying the bills?"
    "Severance packages mostly … I'm getting by. What about you? You must have had a few strings pulled to secure an early discharge."
    "As a matter of fact, I did." Bill drained his glass and pushed it toward Hank for more. "The same strings landed me a job working for Congressman Thomas. I'm his chief of staff."
    "So that's how you're gonna change the world? Politics?" Hank huffed sarcastically and wiped his mouth with an arm. "I thought you were going to stay away from all of that-isn't that what your father always wanted for you? President Kemp, wasn't it?"
    "Yeah, yeah it is, but my father had nothing to do with me getting this job. At least not directly."
    "Is that right?" A single eyebrow formed a questioning arch on Hank's brow. "You really think so? Come on, Billy, let's get real."
    "I'm serious. He had nothing to do with it. In fact, my Dad is pissed. Gilbert Thomas is a Democrat." Bill's eyes rolled behind his glass. "I'm involved in something bigger than party politics."
    "So what's the deal? You're what, not even twenty-five? How'd ya land a suit job with a congressman?"
    "I've been groomed. I've spent the last three years in Officer Candidate School."
    "It doesn't work that way, Billy." Once again, Hank was boring into Bill's eyes looking for answers. "I know, believe me."
    "The reason I was pushed through the Academy and secured an early discharge is the same reason I found myself working with Thomas. It's the same reason that brings me here today."
    "I'm listening."
    "I'm part of something big, and I need your help. Despite what you may think of yourself, you are an asset. You are the best of the best." Bill turned to pull a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and slid one into his mouth.
    "Because I was Delta?"
    "Because you were Delta." Bill clicked open a Zippo lighter engraved with the Special Forces logo and brought the flame to his face. "And because you have the particular worldview we need. The skill set you bring as a Delta operator is secondary."
    "Worldview? What has that got to do with anything? Who are we?"
    "After meeting you, I became vocal about certain issues..."
    Hank settled into his seat, allowing Bill to continue.
    "You taught me that there are two types of people in the world: those who believe, and those who don't." Bill rolled the Zippo over his knuckles. "I see that look on your face. I know what you're thinking, but let me lay it out for you. Meeting you made a profound impact on me. I probably didn't even realize it at the time, but you did. I began questioning things, and like I said I became vocal about certain things."
    "What kind of things?"
    "Big picture things, as you call them. The prevailing state of the world … today's society is fundamentally flawed; our perceptions are flawed. You showed me how dangerous our beliefs truly are."
    "I taught you all that?" Hank smiled skeptically.
    "In a way. You showed me our current worldview is clouded by untruth, that the truth was out there, but people were too frightened to look for it."
    "The truth?"
    "If not the truth, the ability to point out what is false. You showed me how the religious worldview affects every aspect of our lives, not just politics and culture, but everything. You showed me that our beliefs must be founded on reason, or else any level of madness is possible."
    "You're such a paladin, Billy. What makes you think you can change what people believe?"
    "Paladin?"
    "Yeah, a paladin. A real, old-fashioned, good guy. The cowboy in the white hat. The guy who's gonna save the girl and not get dirty … the kind of guy who shoots the gun out of the bad guy's hand but never kills him. That's you."
    "Maybe I am."
    "Oh, you are, Billy. You're not the first guy to rage against the insanity of religion, but, historically speaking, most of those guys have ended up dead. It's not a black-and-white world out there. And politics isn't a place for the guy with the white hat. It's a dirty business. There's no place for morality. In fact, there is no morality-only convenience."
    "I know how the system works, but I'm talking about something different. This goes well beyond American politics. I, and many others, believe we're at a critical juncture. The pendulum has swung away from the age of reason back to a resurgence of religious fundamentalism. The Christian right is consolidating its power here in the states, and radical fundamentalist groups are popping up all over the world. We believe that a major faith-based conflict is brewing. We want to stop it. Now is the time."
    "You're probably right."
    "You've said it yourself: the entire Muslim view of the West is seen through the prism of the Israel-Palestine conflict. It's a nightmarish time-bomb. There are Christian groups right here in the U.S. who secretly support war in Israel. They want the second coming. They want Armageddon!"
    "Megiddo." Hank muttered the name absently.
    "What?"
    "Megiddo, the city. That's where the rapture is supposed to take place-Armageddon. Har-Megiddo. It means 'the hill above Megiddo' in Hebrew. You can take a tour bus there if you want."
    "I know you understand these things, probably better than I do, but what you don't understand is there is a movement out there that believes such a war can be avoided. They have a plan. They have a mission."
    "Oh yeah, how do they expect to diffuse the ticking time-bomb?"
    "We can end the insanity by destroying faith. Destroy faith itself. We can substitute belief in a higher power for a better understanding of who we truly are."
    "But you might not like who we truly are. You get rid of God-and, consequently, evil-then guys like Hitler and Stalin were just men like us."
    "But they were just men. It's wrong to think they were something else. I know you believe that."
    "I do, but the sheep out there are too afraid to think of themselves in that light. Religion is still around, even becoming more prevalent, because it works. It allows them to carry on with their lives without really thinking about it. People are too afraid to think for themselves. They'd rather be mastered by an almighty. That is human nature Billy."
    "There are smart people out there, too. People who do think for themselves, and they're ready for change."
    "And they think they have the answers?"
    "They have a plan."
    Hank stirred the drink in his hand. He didn't feel like debating the unsolvable with the young idealist. He was reluctant to play the cynic and point out the futility of Bill's dreams. He no longer held any passion for the great debate. He'd already spent his life fighting for a cause.
    "Many of us think there is hope for humanity to evolve. You know better than anyone what pain religion adds to suffering, what unnatural guilt and inferiority it brings to weigh down men's spirits."
    "I know, huh? Because my brothers were all killed, and my mother became a born-again nut, you think you know why I despise religion? You think you know why I hate humanity?" Hank's expression hardened as he turned on Bill.
    "There is no God- you know that."
    "You don't know shit about me! I hate God! I listened to my mother plead with him for hours on end… like he was right there in the room with us. That's who I hate, the one who talks people out of their lives."
    "I met with your father. We talked."
    "So what? He's a drunk."
    "He told me what your mother said before she died. He told me the whole story."
    "What did he tell you?" Hank found himself suddenly curious about his father's take on things.
    "He said you and your brothers were pretty shaken up after Tommy's death. He said you were all pretty tight. You were only thirteen."
    "It was my first year of high school," Hank said absently, not fully remembering how much of the story he had told Bill. "Tommy wrapped his car around a tree on prom night. Three other kids died in the car with him. Everybody blamed Tommy because he was drunk. All of us were blamed. Drunk fuckin' Irish-"
    "And Jack-Jack Jr.-was killed a year later. Some kind of freak accident?"
    "Some son of a bitch jumping off a building…"
    "He was the same age as Tommy, right?"
    "Eighteen."
    "And Mike died of an overdose on his eighteenth birthday." Bill's head hung low as he looked up at Hank. "Jack told me what your mother said to you, and how you left for the army just before your eighteenth birthday. He says he hasn't seen you since."
    "What did he say about Mike's death?"
    "Some kind of overdose."
    "Accidental or-?" Hank looked away and couldn't finish.
    "Accidental. He said he'd been messing around with heroin."
    Hank remained silent for a long while, collecting himself. "And what did he tell you my mother said?"
    "He said she had gone mad. She was dying of cancer and wouldn't get treatment."
    "She wanted to die a martyr."
    "He said she became more delusional with each death. She believed that you were all paying for the sins he committed in Vietnam."
    "By that time she was already talking to angels." Hank drank deeply from his glass. The vodka no longer stung his palate. "You wouldn't believe what these angels would tell her."
    "Jack said he couldn't take it."
    "He escaped into a bottle! I was the only one left to take care of her! I was the one who had to bathe her, feed her, everything!"
    "I can't even imagine." Bill lowered his head solemnly. "You know, he feels really bad for not being there."
    "I don't blame him. She wouldn't accept him no matter what he did. She needed someone to blame. She fell in love with Jesus and out of love with him. Jesus was everything. He didn't stand a chance."
    "She died when you were still in high school?"
    "Right before graduation. I was seventeen. She was sick for most of my senior year. But when she died, suddenly I was free." Hank closed his hands, as if the whole story had been told. "That's when I enlisted."
    "And you haven't been home since?"
    "Home? You don't understand. There's nothing for me back there."
    "What about your father?"
    "He's a broken man. The Irish curse. My mother said Vietnam did it to him, but I think she did it to him, her and Jesus."
    "He's worried you might think you're cursed."
    "Gotta love the Catholics for keeping curses alive." Hank drained the rest of his cocktail with a smirk. "I never bought any of that shit. Besides, I'm thirty frickin' years old."
    "Jack wanted me to tell you that he never did any of those things your mother accused him of."
    "I know. I've read his jacket. I had plenty of time to kill while I was working at the Pentagon. There was never any hint of any misconduct. It wouldn't matter to me if there were. I'm a soldier; I understand." Hank filled both glasses again.
    "To the army." Bill raised the reddish cocktail in a toast.
    "Uh-rah." Hank said half heartedly, but he was thinking, Fuck the army.
    "Listen, why don't you get showered up? We can take this up over some grub. I know this place downtown where the waitresses are all tens."
    "Oh yeah?"
    "Come on, I'm buying."
    After a shower and another round of drinks, they staggered outside to hail a cab. As expected, Bill managed to keep the conversation light, and Hank waited patiently for him to bring up the important business he alluded to. Hank tolerated the bullshit, knowing Bill must surely be building up courage for something big, but as the afternoon turned to evening, the evening rolled into night, and the bars became crowded with women, Bill seemed to lose all interest in serious conversation.
    Hank's impatience turned to anger when he caught Bill posing as a wealthy Internet millionaire, and he finally pulled him out of the club into a waiting cab. He directed the driver to a topless bar where he knew there were quiet places to continue their conversation.
    Once inside, they found the club lined with beautiful women all in varied degrees of undress. Hank managed to usher Bill past the front row seats, affectionately called "sniffer's row" by the girls, to the back of the club where the lights were dim and the speakers were nearly out of range. They found an empty booth, which more closely resembled two couches separated by a low glass table.
    "Nice place, Hank. Looks kinda dirty-know what I mean?" Bill's brows arched eagerly on his face as his head swiveled from beauty to beauty. "Shouldn't we sit a little closer?" Bill arched his neck to get a better view of the main stage.
    "No. We can talk here."
    "That reminds me, did you hear someone is writing a book about the Mog? He's calling it Black Hawk Down."
    The phrase that changed his life forever rang in Hank's memory, and was immediately felt in his absent leg. "No."
    "It's supposed to be a minute-to-minute account of the Battle of the Black Sea."
    "Ma, Alinti Rangers." Hank said somberly in Somali.
    "The day of the Rangers." Bill repeated in English.
    "I like the Day of the Rangers better than the Battle of the Black Sea." Hank flung the straw to the floor and began gulping down his drink. "Battles make history. That coward Aspin stole that distinction from us." Hank glared at Bill from over his neon cup. "That day was ours. A hundred and fifty Rangers against a whole city of fanatic primitives. The Somalis claim we killed three and a half thousand. We only lost eighteen guys." Hank's hand reached down and absently massaged the stump under his prosthetic.
    "It's surprising to hear it remembered like that."
    "That's what happened when the cowards back in Washington pulled us out: it looks like we got our ass kicked. We were engaged in the hottest firefight since Vietnam, and nothing ever came of it. They gave back all of our prisoners! Aidid was left in power, and we took off with our tails between our legs!"
    "Did you know that Aidid's son was one of the Rangers in the Mog?"
    "Yeah-" Hank shook his head in disgust. "You Rangers will take anybody."
    "Doesn't it drive you crazy? We did it all for nothing!"
    "Here's to Les Aspin getting the clap-for the way he fucked us!" Hank raised his voice as Bill paid out another twenty bucks. "He's the same son of a bitch that boned me in Panama."
    "That's right, you started off in Delta A-squadron. I forgot you were in Panama."
    "That's right, the A-Team. We ran the psych-ops. That was a fun campaign."
    "Didn't you guys dress up a goat in Noriega's underwear?"
    "Not just any underwear, a bright red thong! His lucky underwear. He'd been coked up for days once we trapped him in the embassy."
    "The Vatican embassy, right? I still can't believe they took him in, considering they knew he was into Voodoo and all the satanic stuff."
    "You wouldn't believe the stuff we found in his houses; kid porn, pictures of mutilated bodies, all kinds of weird stuff. He had bucket loads of cocaine. Anyway, he was way into Voodoo, traveled with his own priest and everything. We knew about his lucky red panties, so once we had him cornered we slipped a pair on this nasty old Billy goat and tied it up outside. Goats are way-bad mojo in the voodoo world; they've got devil's eyes. It reportedly drove him nuts."
    "How long did the standoff last?"
    "About a week. We tried every trick in the book, but he wouldn't budge."
    "So how did you end up in Delta C-squadron?"
    "That's another story." Hank tried to wave off the question, pretending to focus his attention on the girls.
    "What did you do?" Bill smiled knowingly, eager to hear more of his exploits.
    "I shot one of Noriega's men when I wasn't supposed to."
    "You what?"
    "Well, it's complicated, but the Reader's Digest version goes like this: we were about a week into the standoff, and I was on sniper detail. We'd nabbed most of his men by now, but there was this one bodyguard who was sticking around. Big ugly guy, always carried some heavy artillery. Noriega wouldn't budge as long as he was around. So this gorilla stepped out to do a blast of coke, and I took my shot. I recovered the body, and the Catholics didn't know I took him out, but I got hammered anyway. The next thing I knew, I was in the Middle East. I learned Spanish for nothing."
    "You didn't have orders to shoot?"
    "Not on embassy grounds."
    "Man, you've got balls."
    "Noriega gave up the next day. It was a good shoot."
    "I admire that about you. You stand by your actions. Not many people do anymore."
    "So let's cut the bullshit, Billy: what's this all about?"
    "Okay, Hank, but I need you to be up front with me about something first."
    "Me? I'm an open book! You're the one dodging questions."
    "All right, Hank." Bill took out a cigarette and seemed to ready himself. "Who is Henry Patrick?"
    The question struck Hank like a blow. "You know about Henry, huh?"
    "Is he you? I need to know before I can play my hand."
     "Why do you need to know about Henry?"
    "I need to know if Henry-or you-has any trouble following him. I can't make a move until I know you're clean." Bill struggled to maintain eye contact. "I trust you, Hank, and I hope you trust me too. Just let me know you're not caught up in any bullshit, and I can tell you what this is all about. Why have you been using an alias?"
    "I'm clean, Billy." Hank settled back into his seat, with his arms folded across his chest. "What do you need to know, Congressman?"
    "Why does Henry's name keep popping up when I look for you?"
    "Popping up?"
    "I was trying to track you down, but your file was a total dead end. I found out that you had a job lined up after you left the army, Tech Solutions or something, but I checked with the company and they said they'd never heard of you. So I pulled a few strings and had a friend from the CIA look into it for me."
    "CIA?" Hank bolted out of his chair.
    Bill nearly dropped his drink, then recovered, talking fast. "He was able to find some documents from Tech Solutions that had your DD-214 number and discharge information on them, but they were for a guy named Henry Patrick."
    "You had the CIA looking for me?"
    "We checked Henry's records, but they were classified. All we knew was that he was a Navy SEAL, with almost the same vital stats as you. We couldn't get any further. It was classified."
    "You had the motherfuckin' CIA looking for me!" Hank's fists pounded the table, nearly clearing the drinks.
    "He was just a friend helping a friend, completely informal."
    Hank could see that Bill was shaken by his volatile response, and he could feel the prickly heat of anger creeping up his neck. He'd had a special hatred for the CIA ever since he'd failed their psych exam. "Who do you think you are?"
    "That's not important right now-we have to clear this up first."
    "Fuck you! You have those bastards looking for me, but you won't tell me why! What the hell were you looking for?"
    "It's like this, Hank: I need you, but I'm in a delicate situation. I don't understand why you're using the name Henry Patrick."
    "All right, Billy, I've got nothing to hide from you." Hank relaxed his posture and unclenched his fists. "I'm not into anything that can tarnish the good congressman's reputation, so you don't have to worry about being seen with me."
    "It's not about the congressman," Bill began, but Hank cut him short.
    "The alias is simple. I don't want to get into all the reasons why, but let's just say the new name was part of a new life. When I worked at the Pentagon, I met this guy-he was navy, pretty sharp, but real talkative. We helped each other now and then. Anyway this guy was getting ready to leave the navy, and he planned on taking some of his expertise to South America with him. He was planning on making a killing in some of the more lucrative markets down there."
    "What, drugs?"
    "This guy was total adrenalin junky. He washed out of the SEALs three times. He was a real sharp operator, especially with computer systems, but otherwise he was all messed up."
    "What happened to him?"
    "He's dead now. He always told me he was going to be some high-tech drug lord with a harem of Latin babes, but I always thought he was full of it-until one day he came to me with some sensitive security questions. In exchange for my help, he showed me how he planned on changing his identity."
    "How'd he do it?"
    "The SEALs keep a list. It's a list of ready-made false identities for its field operators. It was that simple."
    Bill rolled a cigarette between his fingers with an expression on his face that suggested he was waiting for bad news to follow.
    "All I had to do was activate my own profile… no questions asked. It seemed like a good idea at the time."
    "And you've been using the name ever since?"
    "What good is having an alias if you don't use it?"
    Bill stuck the cigarette between his lips and squinted at Hank through the smoke. "That's it?"
    "That's it. Nothing shady. No FBI's most wanted list, just a half-assed attempt at a fresh start." Hank's eyes hardened on Bill's. "Now are you gonna tell me what this is all about?"
"Okay, Hank: simply put, I need you. In fact, I may need Henry even more."

    The hard scowl on Hank's face caused Bill to stumble over second thoughts. The most dangerous man he knew sat across from him, angrily demanding answers, and he had foolishly complicated matters by getting him drunk. Hank's dark gaze bore into him, forcing Bill's eyes to the floor. The moment had come, and now his thoughts swirled with paranoid uncertainty. His lips pulled the last of his cigarette to the butt, and he rallied his nerve.
    The fragments of thought he'd rehearsed scattered, and Bill suddenly found himself not knowing where to start. He bent low to rest his elbows on his knees, and looked up into Hank's face. The unwavering glare was unnerving, reminding him of what Hank was capable of, and why he'd gone through the trouble of finding him. In the end, he knew all he had to do was open the door. Hank was a born Iconoclast.
    "This is not the way I intended this conversation to take place." Bill smiled weakly in the direction of the two nearly naked women on stage.
    Hank didn't move.
    "What I'd like to propose is … is complicated, but I think I can make it simple for you … for both of us." Bill crushed his cigarette butt into a tray and opened his hands toward Hank. "What do you want? What do you want more than anything else?"
    "I want to know what the hell you're talking about!" Hank's raised a fist. "Cut the bullshit, Kemp!"
    "You see …" Bill shifted in his seat, drying his palms on his pant-legs. "I think I've got what you want, and you've got what I need. I need an Operator with your talents." Bill let the words hang for a moment as he tried to read Hank's face. Feeling a kind of dismissal in Hank's unchanged expression, Bill lowered his voice somberly. "I need someone I can trust with my life." A long silence followed as Bill dug for another smoke. He wedged the cigarette between his lips and flashed Hank a well-practiced half smile, as if to say, "There you have it-it's that simple."
    "And you know what I want, huh?" Hank's upper lip curled into a snarl.
    "You want back in." Bill answered flatly, briefly meeting Hank's eyes before checking himself. "You're pissing your life away. Your talents are going to waste. You're the sharpest guy I've ever met; you speak what, seven languages? You were Black Ops! I know you can't be ready to throw away your life because you lost your leg."
    "Don't tell me what I'm pissing away!"
    "Hear me out on this-listen to what I have to offer you."
    "I don't need your charity! I don't need some bullshit bodyguard job!"
    "It's not charity. My debt to you can never be fully paid-I know that." Bill changed tone and straightened in his seat. "I have a job for you. No bullshit." Bill raised his cup, wagging a cautionary finger. "But just like when you were recruited into the Delta Force, there are some things I can't tell you right now. Not until I get some degree of commitment."
    Hank sat back in his chair and interlocked his fingers. "Okay."
    "First of all, I need you to understand that all this has very little to do with the congressman's office. I can only speak in generalities for now, but I am part of an organization much more powerful than any political office. And I hope it goes without saying, they wouldn't appreciate me speaking openly about any of this. I need to trust you. And I need you to take me very seriously."
    After a long moment of hawk-like staring, Hank simply nodded his head and reached out to take his drink from the table.
    "Now don't get the wrong idea: these are good people. They have reason to stay underground."
    "I would expect nothing less from you, Billy."
    "Let's say the organization-a movement, really-is on the verge of making a political breakout … among other things. They've been busy seeding every level of government for almost a decade. That's how I got my position. That's why I was pushed through to an early discharge. But right now, I'm small potatoes: there are others, names you know. Our strength comes from our connections, and the network has grown strong enough to make a move. A new moderate political party is going to break out, and it's going to rock the system."
    "Politics?" Hank looked disappointed but amused. "This is about politics?"
    "Yes and no. The political breakout is only one prong of the attack. We need the legislative power, and we can get it back. The two-party system is weak. It's ready to crumble, and we're gonna split them right down the middle. Power, real power, is all about connections. And right now, I'm connected. I've been charged with managing a network of people-operatives." Bill let some of the pride show as he squared his shoulders with Hank's. "That is why I need a man like you."
    Hank screwed his face into a question mark, but didn't speak.
    "I was recruited because of my beliefs … and, more importantly, because of my talents and connections."
    "Connections like your father?"
    "Yeah, but not quite the way you think. He is not an Iconoclast. He has no idea about the organization."
    "Iconoclast?" Curiosity surfaced on Hank's face.
    Bill grimaced. He had not intended to let the term slip just yet. "Well, yeah. Iconoclast."
    "Like the religious nuts? The old-school Protestants who went around burning relics?" Puzzlement was clear in Hank's eyes.
    "But the term means idol breaker. Think in more modern, Western terms. Take out the religious zealot and replace him with someone who is willing to attack the established beliefs of countless generations, someone who is willing to expose the truth, someone who wants change."
    "Someone like me?" Hank's voice dripped with sarcasm as he rolled his eyes.
    "Someone like us. There are more of us than you think. Good, smart people. People who are fed up, who are ready to spark the change that's been a long time in coming."
    "And you think I'm perfect for your movement because of my feelings toward religion? I dunno …"
    "Once you see for yourself, you'll understand what I'm talking about. But for right now, all I'm saying is I've got the perfect job for you. I need a guy to manage operations from behind the scenes, someone who can perform some of the more sensitive operations within my sphere of influence. I'm not looking for an executive officer. I need a partner. A silent partner."
    "What kind of operations are you talking about?"
    "To talk about that, I would need the certain degree of commitment I mentioned."
    "Well, let me ask you this: how's the severance package?" Hank cracked a smile, and for a moment Bill thought that he was playing with him.
    "It's great, just like in Black Ops. You want out, they kill you."
    Hank burst with laughter and raised his cup with a wink.
    "You know I'm kidding, right?" Bill asked half laughing. "You look so serious."
    "It wouldn't be the first time I made that deal."
    "To fully explain what I need, I should start from the beginning. It's all about the Icons. 'The Iconoclasts' isn't what the organization officially calls itself, but the name has kind of stuck."
    "It's catchy."
    "The initial core group started as a think tank back in the sixties. Their focus was global conflict resolution. The group was mostly made up of scientists and academics, with a few theologians and psychologists, but it was under military direction. Early on in their talks, they found that their debates usually ended in an impasse over religion and its cultural effects. It was argued that religious inclinations and religious establishments were responsible for most of the wars throughout history. Some argued that humanity was ready to move past its archaic beliefs, but the debate ended in a stalemate. They never came to an effective resolution, and the group was eventually abandoned.
    But before they went their separate ways, a splinter group emerged and formed some powerful alliances. The members who felt strongly that the issue of religion was a paramount threat and needed to be addressed as one met secretly. This group began expanding its membership and setting goals for itself. They've been secretive until now because of the negative stigma attached to atheism, but they're finally ready to move forward with their mission."
    "And what exactly is the mission?"
"Evolution-the next step. Freedom. Freedom from religion. Destroy the idols of the faithful … and with destruction comes change."
    "Sounds pretty ambitious, Billy."
    "Forget about the mission for a minute." The condescending expression on Hank's face made Bill flush with embarrassment. "Let's talk business for a moment, maybe then you'll have an idea of the scope of our organization. This is the real deal." For Bill, the mission was everything-and he didn't like Hank shrugging it off as simple idealism. "I can start you off with a hundred and fifty thousand a year, plus expenses."
    "That's decent money, but your mission is impossible. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for changing the system, but you'll never get rid of religion."
    "How can you of all people say that? The time is right! The age of reason stumbled somehow, but it's time to take the next step."
    "You want to enlighten humanity to the fact that there is no God? Well, I've got news for you: there is a God. Man created God from some deep-seated need for him. God is an extension of humanity, and religion is simply its semantics. It's in our genes. At best, you'll only supplant one religion with another."
    Bill felt at a loss for words as Hank casually insulted the goals that had grown to consume his life. He could only stare into his drink and brood over his poor timing.
    "Think about it this way: Homo sapiens have been walking around on two feet for nearly three million years. We began cultivating crops and forming civilizations three thousand years ago. We came into the age of science and the industrial revolution less than three hundred years ago. We landed on the moon only fifty years ago. My point is- the same brain that learned to use tools to crack open bones all those centuries ago still rattles around inside our skulls. The same brain that concluded lightning was hurled to earth by sky gods still believes in cutting off the tips of their son's cocks. The same hands that fashioned stone tools eventually made tools to land us on the moon. Religion only seems archaic to us now because our technology has outpaced our biology."
    "But we have evolved."
    "We've learned, but our brains haven't changed. We adapt our environment to suit us; we no longer adapt to suit our environment. We've stopped evolving."
    "This is not the end. It can't be the end. You'll never convince me we've reached the pinnacle of our development."
    "Who's to say? It could all end tomorrow. Mother Nature could have that one bad day, or some fool could get hold of the button. Call me a pessimist, but I don't hold out much hope for mankind. Besides, I think we've already peaked. We're too decadent, too permissive. We're a society in decline."
    Bill huffed with exasperation. "Oh yeah? So when did we peak?"
    "With the Greeks, probably." Hank shifted in his seat, relaxing his arms. "But you're right about one thing, Billy: there's a war brewing. And you know what else? There's not a doubt in my mind we'll see a nuclear detonation in our lifetime. That's the real nightmare."
    "You're preaching to the choir, Hank. We know, and we want to stop it. You can't give up hope. I know you're not one to roll over and take it."
    "Hope for hope's sake, Billy?"
    "There's time to change, but we must act." Bill leaned closer, mirroring Hank's posture. "A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step."
    Hank laughed in his face, then brought his fingers to the corners of his eyes, pulling back the skin, giving his best Chinese impression. "Ah, but the path to enlightenment leads to nowhere, Grasshopper."
    Again, Bill was at a loss for words. He felt as if Hank was toying with him.
    "What do you know about the Easter Islands, Billy?" Hank's voice was casual, and he began to relax his posture-giving Bill the impression he had already dismissed his offer.
"The place with all the giant heads?"
    "Yeah, the Moi. Let me tell you a little something about those giant heads. The islands are stuck out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. They were settled by some migrating Polynesians so long ago that no one knows where they came from. They remained isolated for nearly two thousand years, and over time they developed their own civilization and their own religion: hence the giant heads."
    "Okay."
    "Their religion was similar to others around the world at the time, complete with priests, altars, and sacrifices. At one point the civilization numbered in the tens of thousands, but when the islands were discovered, only a few dozen inhabitants remained. It wasn't because of Spanish Conquistadors; the decimation was caused by attrition resulting from years of religious wars. The islands had been completely deforested in order to rebuild after attacks, make weapons, and to make and move their Moi idols. In fact, when the islands were discovered on Easter Sunday, there were one hundred Moi for every person left on the island."
    "You're only strengthening my point."
    "My point is that religion doesn't kill people; people kill people."
    "We can move past that. Let people kill each other without evoking the name of God. Let us expose the motivations that drive humanity for what they truly are."
    "Like what? Egotism? We can't relate to these concepts without thinking we're part of something bigger, something infinitely more important."
    "I can see you're going to make this difficult for me. I don't know why I'm surprised. Just give me some time to show you what the Icons are capable of. They'll win you over, even if I can't."
    "I'm not trying to be difficult, Billy. I'm just trying to show you: I'm all done. I've had enough. I've already done my part."
    "Your fighting days are far from over, Hank. This is a fight we can win. The Icons have amassed huge financial resources. Our people are ready to act all over the world. I'm only involved in the Activist Branch of the organization. We are going to be the soldiers of the movement."
    "Soldiers? Forming your own army?"
    "There's a virtual army of people out there who've had their power taken away. We'll give them a voice, a platform. There are more of them than you think. Some studies show that nearly 20 percent of the population doesn't believe in any kind of God; look at what the gays have done in the political arena-with just a fraction of those numbers."
    "The gays?"
    "An outstanding lobbying group, big money, media coverage, celebrity endorsements … they're a great model for any political minority. If diabetics had mobilized like that, there wouldn't be any more diabetes. There are far fewer gays than diabetics, and more people die from diabetes than AIDS, but AIDS research gets a hundred times the funding."
    "You've modeled your campaign on the gay movement?"
    "Why not? It's effective. Lawsuits, protests, marches, mass media coverage, the works. We bring everyone together under one banner, incorporate groups already involved with our causes: separation of church and state people, pro-choice advocates, whatever. We go after churches' tax-exempt status; we're pushing legislation to get the word God off our currency, out of the pledge of allegiance, out of the courts. The law, the constitution, is on our side. Only the moral majority stands in our way."
    "What are you planning on calling this new party?"
    "The Humanist Party. We split the system right down the middle. Strong on constitutionalism, separation of church and state, human rights-especially women's rights-but all for a smaller government. We see a huge opportunity to grab the woman's vote. The demographics look good. Really good. But politics isn't even our strongest suit; the media is where we have our most influence. If we control the media we control our destiny." Bill paused to light another cigarette.
    "So what do you need a guy like me for? Spy shit?"
    Bill practically leered over his drink at Hank. He knew this was his real selling point. "Ya, spy shit."
    "You want me to be a spook for a bunch of atheist activists?" Hank laughed, pushing himself away. "I'm sorry Bill, but I'm gonna have to pass."
    "Pass? You can't be serious… what else are you…"
    "What else am I good for?" Hank smiled at him playfully.
    "What else are you going to do? Think about what I'm offering you."
    "What do you need me to do? Find out who the Pope is banging?" Hank smirked. "Track down the guy who puts bibles in hotels? What do I do when I catch him? Do I rub him out?"
    "I can see your not taking me seriously. Let me give you an example of some of our needs. There's a sniper shooting doctors who perform abortions… we've infiltrated the church that supports him, and we're working to catch him, and expose the church. And ya, if you catch him you get to rub him out." The drink shook in Bill's hands as he formed a hard glare of his own.
    Hank eyed him for a moment before turning away, shaking his head. "My rubbing-out days are over Billy."
    "It didn't want to have this conversation like this… I can barely see straight. Just promise me you'll think about it." Bill inwardly kicked himself for his foolish approach. He had counted on a warmer reception from Hank.
    "Ya, sure I'll drink-it-over!" Hank laughed as he gulped down another cocktail.
    Bill tried to appear lighthearted as they drank the remaining hours away, but he stewed over Hank's refusal until the club shut down and they found themselves on the street. Hank convinced Bill they were within walking distance of his home, and after a few missed steps and near falls, Bill found himself under Hank's shoulder, half carrying him down the sidewalk. They made it to within a half block from Hank's front door, but Bill couldn't wait any longer. He complained to Hank for the last time and then broke away to urinate behind a phone booth.
    From the corner of his eye he could see Hank trying to steady himself by resting his weight on his prosthetic. He shifted and hopped around, spinning stationary circles around his mechanical leg. He would have continued to spin, never fully catching his balance, but something across the street caught his attention. Hank focused on the object and his body followed, righting itself and stopping the drunken spiral.
    "Those sons a bitches!" Hank's fists balled up and pumped the air as he began to march across the street. He threw himself into every step until he was running.
    At first Bill was only idly curious why Hank had taken off. At the moment, he was more concerned with finishing his business undisturbed. As he peered through the fog, he noticed what Hank had seen. Two shadowy figures were crouched at the base of one of the row houses, spray-painting the walls in quick, fluid motions. Their backs were turned, and they didn't see Hank coming.
    Bill was still in midstream. He would ordinarily have called out to stop Hank, but he was stuck by sudden modesty. He remained silent; feeling the guilty surge of pleasure that accompanied what was sure to be a one-sided spectacle.
    One of the vandals finally heard the mechanical clanking of Hank's sprint and jumped to his feet. From where Bill stood, they appeared to be two black teenagers, identically dressed in dark, hooded sweatshirts. For an instant, Bill feared the worst and thought he might actually get shot while his pants were down, but Hank quickly closed the distance.
    The first teenager slapped his friend on the back and bolted, but it was too late. As he tried to streak down the sidewalk, Hank closed in and shot the foot of his prosthetic leg in front of him. The teen swerved to avoid being tripped, and Hank grabbed hold of the loose sweatshirt hood. Hank pivoted and jerked, swinging the hapless boy by his neck. The kid's feet left the ground, and Hank whipped him through the air. The second teen tried to slip past the melee at precisely the wrong moment; his now horizontal friend spun around and crashed into him, sending both of them to the pavement.
    Hank was on them before they could draw their first breaths. The teen he threw through the air now scrambled to get away. Hank's fist jabbed him in the stomach, and boy doubled over with a sickening grunt.
    Bill forgot his modesty and began running across the street, awkwardly tugging on his zipper. "Hank! No!"
    Hank didn't flinch. He simply turned and made a grab for the second teen. The boy moved with lightening quickness, narrowly slipping past Hank's fists. Hank tried to stop him with a powerful sidekick, but his prosthetic buckled beneath him. The kid took the opportunity to streak down the street, making it twenty yards before turning to look back. His partner was still doubled over, attempting to stagger off, looking ready to vomit at any moment. Hank followed only inches behind, preparing to collar him again.
    Bill locked eyes with the kid down the street. He'd stopped running, and bounced nervously for a second before launching himself back down the sidewalk to help his friend.
    Hank's back was turned to the second kid as he spun the other boy around. He squirmed wildly, almost coming out of his hooded sweatshirt. Hank held him fast with one hand and reared back with the other to deliver a backhand blow. He was about to strike when the boy's friend leaped at Hank's back, sending everyone crashing to the pavement. The speed of the boy's attack was impressive. The kid had covered twice the distance in half the time it took Bill to cross the street.
    Hank was the first on his feet, although he seemed to struggle with his balance. Bill could see the fury in his face. Hank crouched low and leaped for the boy who had knocked him down. He landed near him like a wild animal, using one hand on the ground to steady himself as he swept the boy's legs out from under him with the other hand. The boy landed hard on his back, his head smacking the concrete with a thud. The second boy jumped to his feet and sprinted madly down the sidewalk.
    "Dude! What are you doing?" Bill slowed his approach, carefully maintaining a respectful distance from Hank.
    "These little cocksuckers have been taggin' my building for months!" The veins on his neck protruded grotesquely as he raged into the kid's face. "I'm gonna teach this bastard a lesson!" Hank strode over to where the boys had been painting and grabbed an abandon paint can.
    "Dude, what are you going to do with that? Come on, Hank, he's had enough."
    "I've had enough! This stupid little punk is gonna pay!"
    The boy lay motionless for a moment, and then feebly tried to get up. Hank was on him in a flash. He sat on the boy's chest, pinning his arms with his knees.
    "You like to paint, huh? Well me too!" Hank growled into the boy's face and then let the paint fly from the can in thick, red streams. The boy bucked and kicked but was unable to escape.
    "He's just a kid! Come on, Hank, stop!"
    Paint pooled in the boy's eye sockets and streamed down his face. The shimmering paint made a gory contrast against his dark skin and was strangely highlighted when it ran down a white, powder-like patch of skin on his neck. Lights began popping on in the buildings around them. Hank jumped to his feet, throwing the can down the street. The boy's hands immediately wiped at his eyes and he blew clouds of paint from his nostrils. Hank bent over him again, this time brandishing a fist in the kids face.
"If I ever see you around here again, I'll whip your sorry-little ass!"