(continued from part one)
“What are you doing in town, Wombat?”
“Hunting,” he says.
I can still hear the car alarm of the flattened Cabriolet in the distance.
“Man, I feel bad about that car,” I say.
“Pfeh, their insurance will cover it.”
“I thought you were possessed, man. Brain Frogs or something.”
Wombat laughs. “Dr Quark banished all the Brain Frogs to another dimension. Didn’t you hear?”
“Must have missed that memo.”
I never hear about shit like that, I’m totally out of the loop. I have to read SuperPeople like the rest of you just to get info. There should be a superhero trade journal or something.
“Next time I’m going to make the Brain Frog noise and freak your shit out!” The guy won’t stand still.
“Man, have you tried decaf? Or Ritalin? You’re like that Croc Hunter dude, you never calm down.”
“I have energy, dude! Energy!” He takes a swipe at me, which I block easily.
“Can we have an adult conversation, Wombat?”
“Probably not. Hey, listen, maybe you can help me. I’m looking for somebody, guy named Edward Thomas James.”
“Sounds like a presidential assassin. Who is he?”
“You don’t know? You fought him a couple weeks ago. Guy in a bear suit.”
“Oh, Yiff? You mean Yiff.” [see post Yiff Part One, 10/4]
Wombat looks at me for a second, then cracks up. “Yiff? You call him that? That’s really funny, I didn’t think normal people knew what ‘yiffy’ meant.”
“I look like a normal person to you?” I gesture at my body armor and velvet top-coat.
“Good point. I fought Edward – Yiff – last year in San Francisco, during the Gay Rights Parade. Guy in a panda suit?”
“Right, I read about that. Same guy, huh? What’s his deal? How do you know his name?”
“I have my sources. He posts on a couple of the message boards I frequent online, so I tracked him down that way. He’s a furry, you know – he’s into the whole furry scene. Dude’s fucking crazy – gets off on violence, but only when he’s dressed up in a furry outfit. And he likes the drugs.”
“Yeah, he seemed really whacked out when I fought him. Plus, he tried to hump me.”
Wombat laughs. “That’s the guy!”
“Well, last I saw him he was on fire, doing a belly-flop on to some rocks in the Bay. Cops never found his body.”
“Yeah, I was hoping that you might have heard something from your sources about him.”
Sources? What sources? “Uhh, no,” I say. “Streets have been pretty quiet lately. I think he’s gone underground.”
“Okay,” Wombat says. “It was worth a shot.”
I don’t want to tell Wombat that I don’t have any sources, like a proper urban vigilante. I don’t regularly shake down pimps and dealers for the “word on the street” or anything. I’m embarrassed to say this, but I’m not really into the whole investigative aspect of crimefighting. I just patrol.
“Listen,” Wombat says, handing me a card. “Here’s an email address, drop me a line if you hear anything. We can meet on the top of that building, the Mason’s Lodge.”
“Got it. Hey, wait a second... message board... Are you a furry, Wombat? You like that kind of stuff?”
Wombat gives me an inscrutable look. I think he might be blushing. “No,” he says lamely.
“You are!” I cry, laughing. “You’re a fucking furry! You find anthropomorphic animals sexually exciting! Don’t you? Wombat – I can’t believe I didn’t put this together before!”
“Shut up, Marauder!” I dodge another swipe of his big paw.
“Furry furry furry!” I laugh.
“Dude, I will kick your ass,” he says.
“Hey man, I say fly that freak flag."
“All right, I’m going now.” Wombat heads for the edge of the roof.
“So do you like, watch that Disney Robin Hood cartoon, the one with the foxes and touch yourself –“
“Fuck you, Marauder.” He drops off the edge of the building, leaving me laughing hysterically on the roof, clutching my sides.
Too fucking funny.