Station Breaker

20 Invisible

So my brilliant plan to blend in with the local population and vanish from my pursuers is a complete failure before I even started.

I'd asked the kids about the location of the nearest hotel because I had this fantasy that I'd walk up to the valet drop-off, grab a bag and then shout something like, "Hey, you forgot your suitcase!" and chase after a taxi that was pulling away — making it look like I was a good samaritan, when in fact I was a thieving no-good samaritan.

The Hotel Saint Moritz is a fenced in enclosure with concrete walls and a steel door you have to talk to an intercom to get through.

In fact, just about everything in this part of Rio is like that. There's no wide open windows to the stores. Every entrance has either a guard or a grim-faced shopkeeper. Everything is either nailed down or behind a locked gate.

They've made it very hard for a guy like me to steal what I need to survive.

I don't know how much further I can go in my iCosmos suit before someone realizes who I am.

If the phone Capricorn had given me was still functional, I could at least try to buy something online. I'm sure I could Amazon Prime some Levis and sneakers to a location near me. I mean, this isn't the Dark Ages.

If I'd been expecting a pit stop before returning to Canaveral, I would have brought my wallet. Next time, David. Next time.

Every few blocks I spot a green bubble shaped payphone that says "Oi" on the side. I guess that's the Brazilian version of AT&T. I'm tempted to call somebody collect and have them wire me some money.

Of course, whoever is trying to stop me, the Russians, the Americans, the Illuminati, the Klingons or whatever, will probably be monitoring that kind of thing. So it's only a last resort.

I saw an old man sweeping his sidewalk in front of his house and briefly considered a home invasion, but I'm going to save that contingency for last resort.

What I need is — BAM!!! — something just hit me in the back of the head.

"Paneleiro!" shouts a teenager on the back of a moped as he and his friend fly past me down the street.

I don't have to know Portuguese to guess the context of the slur.

I touch the back of my head and feel where the rock hit me. There's blood.

In any other situation I'd avoid the conflict — especially given the kind of shit storm I'm in the middle of, but that little pecker may have just solved a problem for me.

He's looking back at me, grinning, at the end of the street while they wait to cross the intersection.

I grab a rock, hurl it and shout, "Big words for somebody riding bitch!"

The rock hits him in the arm as he raises his hands to protect himself. His partner guns the moped at the wrong moment, off-balancing him, and the rock thrower falls off the back of the bike.

I race towards him and kick him in the chest before he can get up. He falls back down and I put a foot so far into his balls he'll have to see an oral surgeon. "That's for being a homophobe."

His friend turns the moped around and drives it straight at me — which would be a great move if he was riding something with more horsepower than a riding lawnmower.

I grab the handle bars like they're steer horns and twist the bike to the side. He has to stick a leg outwards to keep himself from falling over.

I kick him in the knee, buckling his leg, and he falls down, with his moped landing hard on his inner thigh.

"Give me your pants!" I yell at him.

He looks up at me, terrified. I'm not sure if he understands English, but I can tell he knows the man his friend just called a homosexual is now demanding that he take off his clothes.

I'd be scared shitless too.

"Now!" I shout, shoving a foot into his chest.

He starts unbuckling his jeans and sliding them off.

"Your zappos too!" I demand.

His friend is holding his nuts and crying. I walk over and grab the hem of his soccer jersey and whip it over his head.

He raises his hands and wails, "Não mais!"

The driver starts to get up to make a run for it, but I throw an arm around his neck and slam him into the pavement before he can get three feet with his falling pants.

He takes them off and I let him run away. I put them on, then slide his shoes on my feet. They're loose-fitting Adidas, but a better fit than the rubber boots.

Rock thrower is struggling to get up, so I help him and take his wallet and phone from his pocket then kick him in the ass, sending him into a concrete wall.

I realize I'm being observed as I spot a mother holding the hand of her little girl watching the whole fracas.

I point to the crying teenager and say, "Bandidos."

The woman gives me a hesitant nod then walks the other way.

I pick the moped off the ground and take off down the street in the general direction of Maracanã stadium.

I'd feel like a bad ass if it wasn't for the fact that neither one of my assailants was older than eighteen or weighed more than 130 pounds. I just beat up children and robbed them.

Fuck it. They started this with an attempted hate crime. Better it happened to me than some poor kid who decided to dress a little different or be himself.

It just so happened that I needed a reason to steal, and those two assholes gave it to me.