It’s hard to find a good mugging in this city.

Like any crimefighter worth his seasoning, I roam the dark, grimy alleys in search of wrongdoing, but you have to understand: this is Lansing, Michigan, home to maybe a dozen alleys total, none of them particularly
menacing. I haven’t seen much grime, in fact, and the alleys here are well lit, with occasional murals.

I come upon a pair of utility workers smoking cigarettes in the alleyway between a café and a jewelry shop. They wear expensive looking boots and shiny hardhats with union stickers. In the concrete behind them is an unmarked hole the size of a minivan. Snaking from the earthen floor are large pipes and wires.

In the absence of crime, a crimefighter must be flexible. I say to them, Hey, fellas, that’s a pretty deep hole.

They squint at me and suck their cigarettes.

I say to them, A child could get hurt in there, don’t you think?

One of them says, If they’re dumb enough to jump in.

I step close to the utility workers. A crimefighter must be fearless.

I say, You gents need to rope off that hole, mark it with cones.

You from OSHA?

I tell him, I belong to no conglomerate, government agency or private association. I am, and will remain, an independent.

A contractor?

I step closer to the utility worker in question, so we are nearly nose-to-nose. A crimefighter must be adept at making his point, sometimes with a touch of drama.

I tell him, My employers are the innocent.

He says, Whatever, buddy, and tries to remove me from his personal space, but I anticipate nicely and knock his hands away. A crimefighter must be swift.

I notice the other utility worker looking up and down the street, and then quite suddenly he grabs the back of my neck, pulls me into the alley and pushes my face against a brick wall. He is strong, this one, and also
swift: a formidable opponent.

The strong, swift utility worker says to the other one, Right here, man, and pokes me in the lower back. Then he slugs me in the same spot. If I didn’t know better, if I wasn’t who I was, I would think he bruised a kidney or
perhaps damaged my muscular-skeletal system. At this point I would typically break free from my assailant and dispense a severe form of justice, but as a crimefighter—alas, a humanitarian—there are times when it’s acceptable to hold back. To give the civilians hope. For these gents, that means supporting their sense of union solidarity, of strength. It means supporting their fight against the corporate stormtroopers who form oppressive groups like this so-called OSHA.

The second utility worker slugs me in the back and the two share a laugh and walk away.

I make a show of falling to my knees, fighting for breath, even gagging. After a few minutes, when I’m confident the utility workers are gone, I turn and sit with my back against the brick wall, arms around knees, like an average Joe enjoying the balmy afternoon air in downtown Lansing, Michigan. I decide to patronize the nearest convenience store and purchase an alcoholic beverage. Despite what you may have heard, even crimefighters partake on occasion (I give you that Punisher fellow as proof). My position: As long as it doesn’t affect my performance.

The desired establishment is three blocks away. Standing out front are a number of panhandlers, one of whom shuffles up to me and asks for three dollars. What I do in these situations is hold up a finger, cock an eyebrow and
explain the need for self-sufficiency.

I say to him, The American dream begins with gainful employment. You must—

The panhandler tears off my shirt.

His colleagues laugh with glee, flashing stained and broken teeth, but I can’t help admire the speed at which the panhandler moved. Still, he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with, and I decide to leave it that way. It all
goes back to giving the civilians hope.

As the panhandler dances around with my shirt over his head, I enter the store only to be scolded by a Middle Eastern gent standing behind the counter.

Out! he shouts. No shirt, no serve!

But I’m—

Out! he shouts.

Back outside the panhandlers surround me in a half-circle and proceed to chant No shirt, no serve! No shirt, no serve! One of them smashes a bottle at my feet, soaking my slacks with grape wine all the way to the crotch. Gauging my options, I figure I can dispatch of the panhandlers and possibly attract the scrutiny of the authorities—not a quality proposition for any crimefighter—or I can brighten their miserable lives.

It’s an easy choice. I dig out my wallet, remove my last thirty-seven dollars and wave it in the air to garner the panhandlers’ attention. Then I fling the bills and attempt to slip away, but not without one of the panhandlers diving at my feet and scoring a shoe. I make the snap decision to remove the other and toss it his way. This job, after all, comes with a certain expectation of philanthropy.

I get to walking and before long, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was lost. Across the street I spot a damsel, a strutting damsel with a short skirt and bulging chest. Behind her is a man, a rather malevolent looking man
if you ask me, with dark clothing and messy hair and ample stubble.

The woman looks over at me with a face of fear—I’m trained to make such observations—and then ducks into a parking structure. The man follows, closing ground. I cross the street in my stocking feet, knowing my time has,
finally, come. It’s time to work.

I break into a trot, then a dead sprint, tearing up the stairs like a crimefighter possessed. I find her on the second floor landing. The woman turns, raises her arms and sprays me in the face with something quite nasty. I scream—a crimefighter’s scream, full of otherworld fury—and the woman sprays the evil potion down my throat. I drop to the floor and manage to get my hands around a calf—a muscular, supple calf—and the woman herself begins to scream.

At this point the stubbled man appears above me, albeit blurry and fragmented, and kicks me to the floor. He must sense the danger in me, the greatness, for he kicks me again, and again, and if I didn’t know better I’d think the good intentioned chap was breaking some ribs.

Next Episode: Fucked in Fargo