The Amazing Adventures of the Sensational Squirrelman

Prologue of Power

Running.

It always starts the same. I’m running. Toward something, away from something, after something. Usually after something. Or more specifically, after someone. Someone I can’t see, someone I don’t know. The sense of urgency so acute it almost stings, the need, the drive so intense it borders on obsession.

I’ve read up on the subject of dreams and their significance and stuff. I mean, you can’t have almost the same dream almost every night without wondering what’s going on in your head. Running dreams are supposed to mean that I feel overwhelmed by my stress, responsibilities, all that. Thing is, I’m not. The life of an accountant isn’t that stressful, except at tax time. Maybe I’m stressed about how dull my life has become.

Anyhow, I’m running. Usually after someone. After a few steps, my heart pounding in my ears, my breathing, slow and regular and deep, the only sound I hear over the regular sounds of the city, I become aware of where I am – almost always running along a roof top somewhere. Jumping over skylights, leapfrogging over chimneys, heading for the edge of the roof. I never stop or slow down or even feel any sense of anxiety at all, I just head straight for the edge of the roof and jump. Over to the next roof sometimes. But occasionally it’s too far and I jump down instead of across – onto a fire escape sometimes. More often, there’s a hot squeezing sensation in my fingertips and toes and suddenly I’m hanging on the side of the wall, these two inch claws sticking out of my fingers and feet, each fingertip has a claw sticking out of it, each toe holding my weight, and I’m crawling along the wall at an incredible rate, jumping over windows – sideways jumping, head first, always head first, around the corners of buildings and along the walls and still sort of running, but in a different way now, not running with just my feet, but my whole body, and I realize I’m not running, I’m chasing. After someone. Someone who has to be caught, because… they did something wrong.

So I’m chasing after… this guy? These guys? And they're up ahead, but I’m gaining on them, and I turn the corner on a building and an elevated train shoots past, the wind knocks me off the wall, and I become aware of the weight on my back, and it spins me as I fall, and land on something softer than the concrete and asphalt alley floor the way I thought I would, I just fell forty feet and the breath has been barely knocked out of me. I stand up and take a quick inventory, nothing’s broken, or even bruised, and I catch a reflection of myself in a broken mirror someone threw in the trash – I’m wearing some sort of costume, it’s grey and tight, a mask covering my face completely, with these little ear-things sticking out the top, my eyes barely visible behind round darkened lenses – they must be only polarized one way, I think, because it’s not dark like I’m wearing sunglasses- the claws from my fingers and toes are gone, and there’s a huge fluffy padded tail attached to my back.

But the drive to catch these guys takes over again and I feel a spasm in my legs and suddenly I’m halfway up the wall, the hot squeeze in my fingers and toes and the claws return, I’m scrambling up the wall toward the next street, I round the corner, see two guys carrying bags and handguns, and I feel a surge of satisfaction so complete and total it’s almost overwhelming, and I LEAP at the pair of them, flipping midair and landing on them feet first, and we all go down in a tangle on the sidewalk.

I’m the first one on my feet – of course – and I look down at the crooks. One of them pulls his gun and fires off a couple but I’m - the only way to describe it is twitching – I’m twitching out of the way, dodging his wild shots, I slash my claws at his hand, knocking the gun aside and drawing blood from his hand and wrist, and he yells, clutching his wounded hand to him. Now his buddy has gotten to his feet, and fires off a more carefully aimed shot, I’m twitching before I hear the gunshot, and he’s shot his friend on the ground in the leg and he screams again and I’m hanging head down on the wall.

“Who the hell are you?!” the unwounded one yells.

“Boys, you’re hurting my feelings. I’ve GOT to work on my press!” I hear a voice say, and I realize that I’m the one that said it. I never willed the words, or thought those thoughts. But the words came from my mouth, and I feel an unpleasant smile form on my face, a smile that says I’m going to enjoy hurting this guy, and I flip off the wall and slash this guy across the face, grabbing his gun hand and twisting it sharp and quick and I hear a wet snapping noise and I know, somehow, that I’ve broken his wrist, but I don’t stop there, I flip the guy over me onto his buddy, and pick them both up, one in each hand, and I slam their heads together. They’re unconscious, and I feel a rage, a terrible anger, a frustration so incredible I can’t even describe it. And I’m barely breathing hard. These guys – they robbed the First Municipal Bank over on Lee Avenue and Fifteenth – chasing after them, running along rooftops, crawling along walls, beating these two up – they weren’t even a workout for me. I’m not breathing hard. I’m barely sweating.

“This is Lower Uptown, dumbass,” I hear myself say without forming the words. “You don’t mess with my turf.”

“I’m Squirrelman.”