Free The Totally Secret Origin of Foxman by Kelly McCullough Page A

The nighttime background is hard to read, but gives the impression he’s hundreds of feet in the air. His face wears an expression composed of equal parts terror and wonder. His mouth is open as though he is screaming, but all is silence.
    Focus on the skateboard: It’s five times thicker than it ought to be and there’s a bright point of nearly invisible flame at the oddly blunt tail. A white vapor trail leads back and down.
    Freeze. Shift to bullet time for a fast tracking shot following that trail. It leads downward at a forty-five degree angle to the steel support of a railroad bridge—the ramp. Turn. Zip back along the rough rusty riveted surface to a sharp bend where it leads onto the top of a speeding train. From there it moves the length of a car. Then, the camera drops between two cars and plummets to the rails. The vapor trail continues along the right-hand rail toward shore.
    Pan back to the boy and his board. This time the background is clear—Minneapolis, with the boy hanging in space high above the ice-rimmed Mississippi River. The rocket has cut out. He seems perfectly balanced in the air for one more moment … Then, gravity reaches up and takes him. As he starts to fall, sound comes in normally.
    â€œOhhhhh shiiiiiiiii—”
    Before he can finish speaking, an enormous bright flare starts below the packed deck of the freeway bridge that has come into focus behind him. It looks like a nuke going off, only with strange arabesques of black light, and neon-green edges—the Hero Bomb. For a moment we can see his bones as shadows against the light shining through him, then the noise of the explosion engulfs the scene and the boy begins the long fall to icy black water below.
    And cut!
    â€¦No.
    I tell myself it’s not working dramatically, that my choice to shift gears has nothing to do with the way my heart is filling with lead. I tell myself I’m no good at this screenplay garbage. That, if it ever makes it to the big screen, the ghostwriter will deal with making it cinematic. That I’m going to focus on what happened. I’m good at lying to myself. So very good at it that I almost believe my own nonsense. I turn my thoughts to the idea of a ghostwriter. That’s safe. My breath comes easier. Yes.
    What? You didn’t think I was going to let this go out into the world in the rough, did you? I’ve got a reputation to maintain, or the tattered remnants of one anyway. If it ever leaves the server it’ll do so after some serious massaging by someone with some major literary cred—writers are cheap and plentiful, even the award-winning ones. Yes, much safer ground. Time to begin again.
    So: Rocket board. Bridge. Train. Falling to my doom. The bomb.
    That’s more or less how it happened. I mean, the Hero Bomb might have actually gone off a couple minutes earlier, but moving it up into the moment makes for more drama. It makes it more real than reality, right?
    Bone-numbing impact that drives the breath from my lungs. Icy black water closing over my head. Panic!
    The voice in my head whispers.
    â€œWhat’s that, Denmother?”
    â€œDon’t forget the effect of your powers on the rocket, sir. Also, your breathing and heart rate suggest extreme distress. Perhaps, if you put on your armor?”
    â€œThe rocket? Yes, but … Oh, all right. I’ll put that in too.” Damned AI, keeping me on task … keeping me honest … saving my soul. “You’re probably right about the armor. Rand is too … vulnerable and squishy and close to the problem. Let’s let Foxman handle it.”
    I spread my arms as I stepped up onto the armor platform. Nothing happened. Right. Breathalyzer. I’ve been clean and sober for over a year, but what OSIRIS wants OSIRIS gets. After I finished breathing into the tube, there was brief interlude with automated power tools as I slipped out of myself and into something a