Free Falling Idols by Brian Hodge

himself with nylon rope and harness, and rappelling from the building’s roof.
    With his paints gone, he could only hang up his smock for the night.
    His final act was to haul a battered trash can from the building’s stoop out to the curb. Pickup in a couple days. He had already dragged it outside after investigating a shattering of glass — Calvin accidentally dropping a large jar — and finding the can stuffed with gas-soaked rags. Wedged beneath wooden stairs as Calvin fumbled with matches. The can reeked and fumed, but better this hazard sit curbside than in the building.
    Homeward, then, three blocks and no scenic changes. World without end, world without help, world too low on hope.
    Leo lived in a narrow, three-story rowhouse, like a brick cracker box turned on end. After quadruple-locking the door behind him, he paced into the kitchen, flicked on the light, snatched a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. Then followed the creaking staircase up, to kick back on the unmade double bed.
    That empty left side — he still thought he could see in it the depression from her final night here, smell her scent. There were still hairs on the other pillow, too long to be his own. But for the past month he had shared this house only with the schools of silverfish that channeled along the baseboards, and the troupe of roaches that tapdanced into hiding at the first mention of light.
    That empty half of the bed, a minimalist monument to his own naivety. See how far my ideals have carried me?
    He sat. He drank. He longed for more stupor than he would allow himself.
    Soon, he slept.
    And unbeknownst to Leo, four blocks away a building burned.

    *

    In times past, Leo had held down a drafting table and an Associate Art Director’s throne with AdWorks, Ltd., pulling down a cool $54 thou per annum, plus percs. Not too shabby.
    Advertising was a strange breed in the white collar world, a peculiar hybrid of business and hands-on creativity that allowed for far more individual expression that did the average corporate cubbyhole. It mattered less that he was a shaggy-headed hulk who looked as if he should be battling the Sheriff of Nottingham, than it did that he delivered goods par excellence. A substantial portion of which was artwork intended to hype the latest in high-tech barbarian toys to all those little would-be twenty-first century Conans.
    Tweak the kids’ interest, spark their imaginations, whet the latent healthy species aggression in us all, and the little tykes clamored for the newest Lord Avatar gadgetry. Power swords and guns, shields and beasts and helmets, action figures sold separately. All featured in the continuing adventures of Lord Avatar himself, as seen advertised in Sunday newspaper comics, and coming soon to a Saturday morning cartoon near you.
    The manufacturer was happy. AdWorks was happy. Wife Natalie was happy. And while money may not buy peace of mind, it at least affords one plenty of places to rest a weary head, and so Leo managed to live with himself.
    Until the day a six-year-old in Green Bay got hold of his grandfather’s prized World War Two vintage samurai sword and skewered a playmate. Because the Lord Avatar plastic just wasn’t real enough anymore, and anyway, it never seemed to hurt on TV.
    Peace of mind, once elusive, now fled to parts unknown. There had to be a better way than this to make a living. The flames of fast-track career burnout were raging. After a month of miserable deliberation Leo resigned his post at AdWorks and talked Natalie into selling the suburban split-level.
    He wasn’t sure why he wanted to move to the inner city. Perhaps a deep-seated desire to immerse himself into a locale with a genuine past, true personality, traits the mass-erected outlying clone dwellings had neatly managed to avoid. Whatever the reason, it felt as strong as a biological need. And at first Natalie was game for the idea. Change was healthy. Change was stimulating.
    The inner city was not