When I reached the alley I heard a muffled yelp and looked around the corner just in time to see the shin-kicker tumbled on the ground with two guys on top of him and a third ripping the backpack off his shoulders.
I wanted to cheer. Finally someone was getting what they deserved. Let them take his textbooks. He could spare the couple hundred bucks of cash. Let him get tripped up in a dark alley on a muggy Missouri evening. It served him right.
It was like a club descended out of the darkness and crashed against my skull.
“Remember the mission!”
The mission? No way. No, please. The mission didn’t include the shin-kicker. Not him! I was supposed to protect people. That meant normal people. Not people who go around kicking immigrant gorilla’s shins for no reason. Come on. Please. Be reasonable.
No good.
With my most fear inspiring gorilla howl I sprang around the corner of the alley, both arms flailing to increase the perception of my size, praying that the dimness of the night and the padding in my costume would combine to form the image of an invincible foe in the minds of the attackers.
The guy with the backpack, who had been charging toward the alley entrance froze. I couldn’t really tell how big he was. All I saw were the whites of his eyes. In a second he had dropped the backpack with a thump and whipped around down the alley. The two thugs on top of the shin-kicker raced after him, slowed only momentarily by the shin-kicker grabbing at their heels as they leapt up.
I let out one more Gonga howl and stopped right in front of the shin-kicker. I held out my hand.
He paused for a second in shock, then grabbed it and jumped to his feet, almost
toppling me over in the process.
I pounded my chest and threw back my head in a vicory howl, then ran down the alley after the attackers. I knew a shortcut home from there. And besides, I really didn’t want to stay around and talk to the shin-kicker. Saving his books was one thing. Letting him thank me was quite another.
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