Hangar ran the whole way and
Crash kept up with him. It was about six miles or so, but Hangar didn’t seem to
slow down at all. It’s a good thing Crash was following him, I don’t know if
anyone else in this chapter was physically fit enough to keep up.
But Hangar stopped running eventually at the mouth of a
darkish alleyway, very shadowy even in the afternoon.
“Are we there?” Crash asked Hangar who was just standing
there staring down the alley.
Hangar, instead of answering, walked casually down the
alley. Crash, wondering what the hell else she was going to do, followed.
He was sitting on an upturned plastic crate. He was asleep.
He had a long white beard and white hair sticking out of his old, ratty top
hat, which matched his old, ratty tuxedo and made him kind of look like a
circus ringmaster from a circus that had long since shut down as the whole
outfit was in such a decrepit state. He also had a cane. Just a normal wooden
with a J-curve on the top, one that he held in front of him, even though he was
asleep.
This was Greg. Crash knew him even before he became a Space
Bum: a nickname that was given to Greg, Hangar and their third person Jackson.
Nobody knows why they’re called that or where the name came from. And when
asked they always provided different answers, well, except for Hangar who would
always just look up at the sky and say, “Because we live in Space.” In a way
that was both distant and sad and most people who heard this thought it was
very deep. Greg and Jacky had loads of different answers for you if you ever
asked, “It’s because we smell so bad, everyone’s always giving us space.” “It’s
Hangar’s fault, always staring out into space all the time.” “It’s for the space
the hole in your chest will make when I stab you through the heart.” And so on.
The truth was no one really knew where the nickname came from, but when the
trio was together, that’s what people called them.
Where was I? Oh yeah, Crash knew Greg before he became a
Space Bum, or at least she knew of him. He was once a distinguished professor
at a prestigious college, but Greg never let on what he taught or where he
taught it.
Greg had an old flask he kept in his inner coat pocket. Nobody
had ever seen him refill it and since he doesn’t let anyone else drink from it,
rumors of its contents have circulated, some saying that it’s a poison that
Greg has to keep drinking or he will die. Other’s claim it’s gasoline that Greg
has to drink in order to fuel himself (these people also believe Greg to be a
robot). Still others believe that it’s Polyjuice Potion, whatever that is. Greg
himself tells people that it’s just normal whisky but it was given to him by a
witch who told him that it would never run empty but if he ever let anyone else
drink from it the spell would break. He’d tell this to anyone who’d ask, but
nobody ever did.
In any case, whatever was in Greg’s flask seemed to
intoxicate him.
Hangar prodded Greg.
“Oh shit!” Greg said, jumping up suddenly and swinging his
cane, which Hangar ducked under, “I’ll get you, ya damned dirty humans!”
Crash grabbed the cane, stopping Greg’s wild swinging. He
stopped yelling and stared at her.
“Crash?” She nodded, Greg hugged her tightly, “Haven’t seen
you in an age. How the hell ya been?”
She shrugged, “Up and down, same as ever. Can you help us
out with something?”
Greg let her go and took a long draw of his flask. Crash
motioned to Hangar.
Hangar came forward with the cloth from the alleyway,
“Found this, marinara on it, wondering what you know.”
Greg took the cloth and examined it, “You put this in your
mouth?”
Hangar smiled, “You know it!”
“Good, had to make sure it was safe,” Greg stuck it in his own
mouth and sucked on it. After a moment he took it out again and said, “Al
Pachoni’s, corner of 2nd and Lawless Avenue.”
Crash wondered how that helped her really, but didn’t get
to ask about it because right then she was kicked onto her back.
Crash turned in pain. She almost never got caught off
guard. But she shouldn’t have expected any less from the person who stood above
her, “Jackson!”
Jackson, the last of the three Space Bums, was a tall girl.
She had very dark skin, making her ancestry of African descent. Of course, Greg
would probably argue, quite correctly, that everyone was of African descent,
but you know what I mean.
Jackson was, at first glance, the most normal of the bunch.
Greg’s flamboyant outfit and foul mouth and Hangar’s obvious madness or
whatever it was. Jackson looked completely normal by comparison. Her outfit was
a simple black t-shirt and camo-pants and army boots. She kept her hair short
so most people couldn’t tell when it was dirty. She liked to smile and laugh
and was dark skinned but had naturally red hair. She looked, well, hot to most
straight men, some gay ones too. In fact, when placed next to Hangar and Greg
(which she usually was) Jacky looked like a model by comparison, even in the
camo-pants.
People liked to approach her sometimes. She would smile and
laugh with them while they hopelessly flirted with her...because it was
hopeless. Totally and completely hopeless.
You see, as many of Jackson’s suitors discovered fairly
quickly, if anyone ever touched her she quickly broke every bone in their body.
Not really, usually she just hurt them and threw them away from her as fast as
she can. Though she’s small and a girl, she’s stronger and faster than she
looked. Only when she’s touched though, oddly enough, kicking Crash to the
ground was just luck. Many have wondered why this is and, much like the other
Space Bums, rumors have circulated about why she does this. But, as I’m sure
anyone would tell you, it’s really none of our business.
Greg helped Crash to her feet as Jacky said, “Sorry about
that Crash.” Embarrassingly rubbing the back of her neck, “I didn’t recognize
you. I thought you might be one of them.”
“One of who?” Crash asked, but she was already guessing the
answer.
“Who else?” Said Greg, “The fucking mafia. They basically
run this town, no one is safe.” Greg took another sip from his flask.
“Not even us hobomen,” Jacky added.
“I mean just last week,” Greg said, “one of ‘um came here
trying to shake us down for cash.”
“Or valuables,” Hangar added.
“Got rid of him though,” Greg was smiling now, “he tried to
put the moves on Jacky.”
Crash nodded, “Very interesting,” she didn’t mean that,
“now, I guess I got to go to a restaurant huh?” That marinara stain was the
only clue she had, maybe if she went to the restaurant that made it she could
find some answers.
“No need,” Greg said after another sip from his flask, “Al
Pachoni’s is the type of fake Italian that most members of the mob aren’t a fan
of. Except for one, Johnny Nimfoe, who eats there probably every day.”
“What makes you think he has anything to do with this?”
Crash asked.
Greg shrugged, “If anything happens in this city, the mob
has something to do with it.”
“Okay,” Crash was skeptical, but it was something, “how do
I find this Johnny Nimfoe?”
At this, Greg backhanded Hangar in the arm. Hangar stopped
staring off into space and smiled at Greg.
“Johnny Nimfoe, where is he?” Greg said.
“Johnny Nimfoe,” Hangar said, going back to staring into
space again, “He’s a class-3 thug. Leader of a smaller unit, two people under
him: Wally and Clay. Anger to the nth degree. Addicted to uppers, especially
cocaine and probably an adrenaline junkie too. Was recently kidnapped by
someone dangerous and is being held in an unknown location.”
Crash just stared at him, confused, “How do you know all
this?” She was fairly certain that Hangar had been right next to her since long
before Jack and David were kidnapped, how could Hangar have discovered any
recent information about anybody without her having the same information?
To answer Crash’s question Hangar just shrugged.
“Boy’s got an ear on him,” said Greg as he tapped his
noggin, “listens to things that nobody else can hear.” Then to Hangar: “How do
we find him, boy?”
Hangar shrugged and started staring out into space again, “Can’t.
Off the grid. Might be able to get ahold of his buddies though.” Hangar then
tilted his head as if he actually was listening to something, “Wally and Clay,
they may or may not have recently been in a major car accident. Whether or not
that happened is beyond me, but they are heading towards the tower now.”
“What tower?” Crash realized as she asked that it was a
dumb question.
“What other tower is there?” Greg said pointing at the
Jacob’s tower in the center of town with his cane.
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