Dead On Arrival [Peterick]

This Wouldn't Have Happened If I Were Batman

Pete has cancer. There, he said it, now shut up. He needs sympathy like he needs a ten-foot pole shoved up his ass. Yes, it's serious, yes, he's gonna be dead in whatever dwindling number of months the doctor said this time, he's come to terms with it, everyone else can hurry up and do that too.

Other than that, he's normal. He likes to remind himself of that, he won't wear sad nearly-dead people clothes, he keeps on bleaching his hair 'cause he likes it better that way, keeps on getting tattoos, watching TV shows he'll never see the end of, buying food that'll last longer than he will. After all, what else is there to do but keep on going?

Today is no different. He's heading into town, gonna go buy some more shampoo, get lunch after. He'll head to a club later, the same one he always goes to, the honey-pot that makes him loathe being a bee, but he'd sooner drown in it than pass it up. Pete's a planner, he likes to know the agenda, make the agenda. The law is in his blood, alongside the cancer.

That's the one thing his dad gave him, other than his eyes; a justice serving empire, raking in thousands for every criminal it locks up. He doesn't like to brag, but it's a simple fact: he's rich. Nice house, nice suit, nice watch, he looks the part. Doesn't always feel it, though. He lets other people run the business for him, pace the courtrooms, cite the statutes. All he has to do is show up to a few meetings, smile, nod along with their corporate bullshit, then leave. He likes to compare himself to Bruce Wayne in that sense, the (nearly) millionaire with too much time on his hands. Except, without the nocturnal death-defying tendencies.

He likes the city. It's dingy and soot-stained and so full of rubbish it could double as a landfill site, but it's where he's always been. He knows it, every highway, every alleyway, knows where he's most likely to get a decent coffee and where he's most likely to get stabbed.

It's busy today; well, it's always busy, but Pete finds himself accidentally bumping into more people than usual, feeling elbows in his ribs and car horns in his brain. He's in no hurry, though, the only guy on the street dressed in suit who isn't running for the underground.

There's a lot of places that sell shampoo. The department store a few blocks away, the supermarket across the street, the elegant barber's shops which practically scream don't come in here unless you're rich.

Pete hates all that, though. He never buys from places like those, going out of his way to find little independent stores with bells on the doors and small ads in the windows, where he can be a regular, not just some corporate zombie. His favourite is tucked away off the main road, the crowd thinning as he shimmies through it, away from the feel of breath on his face and smoke in his lungs.

It's a cute little place, at least, to him it is. The scarlet paint is peeling and the glass of the window is so grimy you'd never know it was clear in the first place, but it's got character. As he walks though the door, the few people in there smile at him.

"Hey, Martha," he says brightly, waving to the lady at the counter. She's short and bespectacled, the type of person you wouldn't remember if you saw them in a crowd. But she doesn't mind that, and neither does Pete. Like the shop, she's a hidden gem.

"Hi, Pete, how're you doing?" she asks, smiling. She's one of those people who actually, genuinely seems to care about others.

"Oh, fine, fine," he sighs, as usual. "You?"

"Can't complain, dear. Did you know, the bookshop has gone under?" she exclaims, waggling a finger at Pete and leaning heavily against the counter.

They talk for a few minutes, swapping news, trivial matters that Pete didn't know he cared about. He finds himself extremely emotionally invested in whether the new housing estate east of the city will create more traffic, really wants to know whether Mr. Reynolds found those shoes he wanted in the right size.