Free The Nervous System by Nathan Larson Page B

dig? Plus you can’t make this jazz up, the chopper is trying to pull its mounted guns around as it comes flush with me and I haul off, lean way way out, holding the creaky railing, overextend, and slap the smoke-glass dome of the cockpit—mind you, this is a moving helicopter so I’m spun around and knocked down—but the limpet mine is no longer in my palm, if it went where I intended I will know shortly, can’t feel my hand, cover my head and the flying machine swoops beyond me, get up get up and get down the brittle spiderweb of a staircase, thanks be to the Maker for my malnourished state as I would surely have broken this flimsy thing at pre–2/14 weight, as I think this of course everything is going far too smoothly, so the stairs give, and I come down a-tumbling.
    Luckily it isn’t more than half a flight that I’ve fallen, and this broken by a waterlogged awning, catches me for a split second then snaps, I actually slide down the length of it and land on my feet like the motherfucking kitty cat who ate the cream. It’s the slickest move I’ve busted in years and I’m damn proud to be me at this very moment in the progression of time. Wish a certain woman could have clocked this ninja move but her name, her name is momentarily lost to me.
    My legs are shaking. Still just totally gobsmacked at the speed with which this pandemonium has unfolded. This crew is going to dog me for the duration of my natural life, which at this point might only be the next couple of minutes. Better make ’em count.
    Wishing now I had hung on to the shotgun cause here comes the cops and the other JLTV, whole mess of armed dudes popping out the vehicle like clowns in a VW, somebody shouting into a broadcast system, made nonsense by the sound of the helicopter as it turns to head back our way.
    Nothing to do but start running. Straight at the convoy. This way the heli won’t fire on me. Or so I hope. Plenty of guns and helmet-clad heads are angled my direction from the vehicles up ahead. Figure I’m extending my mortal tenure by about ten seconds. And I don’t remember how this all kicked off. Hope it was logical. Dig, the increasing pressure of a dozen or so trigger fingers.
    Well, folks, I reckon it’s been rizzle. I get mentally prepped to get shot a whole fucking lot. Think about: Iveta, that’s her, the young Hakim Stanley, and my imaginary exwife. My mother. My books. And weirdly: the name Nic Deluccia. How the fuck do I know that man? Funny what crosses your mind.
    Shit, I don’t regret a damn thing. I did my best with the bullshit cards Jesus dealt out. Scatter my ashes across the silent Cross Bronx Expressway.
    I get into the middle of the intersection, and that’s when the chopper explodes.

_______________
    Lopsided, leaning down Seventh Avenue past 37th Street, do now believe I’m clear of any kind of perimeter the Cyna-thugs would have thrown up initially.
    Some might express shock that I lived through such a mad crazy scene. Some might express disappointment.
    To the disappointed, I extend two middle fingers heavenward, à la the Trade Centers of old.
    To those who might be surprised by my seemingly superhuman demonstration of power and subsequent impossible escape, I say simply this: Y’all bitches don’t know me. At least not yet. But stick around.
    I only appear wretched, wraithlike, hollowed-out. It’s an illusion. The life force in me is strong, baby, and I don’t break easy.
    After the chopper blew up I managed to bounce through the smoke and confusion that ensued. It was really that simple.
    But hey now, do I feel a twinge of guilt, a sliver of regret, knowing I caused the demise of more than several fellow travelers?
    Once again: y’all bitches don’t know me.
    As Cyna-corp is regrouping, which will take them a bit for sure, I’ll be high-stepping to parts elsewhere. But what do I know, I could be kidding myself big