Holiday Hellzone! Part Two

(This is part two of my battle with the Jet Pack Mafia, a Christmas tradition for me.)

I’m still trying to clear my head when Fancy Dan grabs me by the lapels of my topcoat and hoists me into the air above him.

“Bon voyage, Fruitcake!”

He throws me into the construction pit.

That wouldn’t be so bad – it’s only a thirty foot drop – but I hit the crane. Or rather, my head hits the crane. I slam into the thick white metal scaffolding headfirst. I shit you not, there is a large gonging noise when my head hits the steel. Little fairies dance in front of my eyes, and I think I black out.

Music. I hear music.

What is this? I’m coming to, tangled in the steel scaffolding of this huge construction crane. Really loud music is playing in my ears. I’m confused.

You know when you’re driving in your car, and you’re scanning through the radio stations because you’re sick of all your CDs. You’re scanning, and you come right in on the middle of some song. For a second it’s just noise, your mind can’t make sense of it. Then you hear it for a few seconds and suddenly the noise gels and becomes a recognizable song. It’s David Bowie’s “Golden Years” or whatever. Well, that’s what I’m going through as I try to figure out where I am, where’s this music coming from, why my head hurts, and what song I’m listening to.

I’m vaguely aware that I’m in some danger.

It’s some dance music, with a galloping beat. Jesus, it’s loud. A woman is kind of singing. Hey, I know this song!

The scaffolding explodes around me as the two Mafiosos open fire with their big cartoony Tommy guns. Armor piercing bullets rip into the metal, shredding it.

I tear loose from the scaffolding and leap off the crane into the pit.

Awkwardly I land on a pallet of rebar. The music is still playing.

Drugs and rock 'n’ roll, bad ass Vegas hoes,

Late-night booty calls and shiny disco balls.

I must have bumped the audio suite in my utility belt when the goon threw me into the crane and turned on my MP3 player full blast. Currently “Shiny Disco Balls” by Who Da Funk is playing really, really loud. It’s a disco song, good for the cardiovascular workouts. Again, not gay.

Drugs and rock 'n’ roll, bad ass Vegas hoes

I’ve got to turn this goddamn thing off.

There’s a horrible groaning noise above me, louder than the music. I look up –

Late-night booty calls

The base of the crane buckles and with a terrible roar the entire crane, one hundred and twenty feet high, the whole goddamn thing falls over.

Shiny disco balls

The music keeps pumping as the crane comes crashing down on 3rd street, flattening about six cars parked on the side of the street. I can’t see from this angle, but I think the crane may have landed on the Art Museum.

Fancy Dan and the Murderizer appear right on cue, flying into the pit with guns ready, looking for their dumpster of money and the annoying superhero who fucked up their day. The two goons float down into the dusty pit, held aloft by their small art deco jet packs.

Drugs and rock 'n’ roll, bad ass Vegas hoes

No time to think this through. I grab a length of rebar from the pallet I landed on. It’s a good ten feet long.

Late-night booty calls and shiny disco balls

I make it to the base of the fallen crane in one huge leap, rebar in hand. The air is thick with dust from the collapse. I run up the warped scaffolding, hopping and climbing higher.

Disco, disco, disco, disco, shiny disco balls

The Jet Pack Mafia are floating down further. I run up the crane towards them.

Disco, disco, disco, disco

The Murderizer spots me first and opens fire. I swear I can almost see each bullet as it races towards me. I push off with one foot, launch myself into the air.

The bullets pass under my feet as I go airborne. I’m dimly aware of something exploding behind me; he must have hit some fuel drums or something.

Everything’s in slow motion now.

Disco

I wind back with my length of rebar like it was a nine iron.

Disco

I float towards The Murderizer.

Disco

And in exquisite slow motion I swat the Murderizer in the head with my makeshift golf club.

Disco

His head snaps back. The rebar distorts with the force of the impact. His feet fly up. He’s falling. I’m falling.

Disco

I land gracefully on top of the portable construction office. The Murderizer does not; he smashes into a backhoe and collapses in a heap.

Disco

God damn it I wish I could focus just for a second on turning this music off!

Fancy Dan coasts sideways with his jet pack, hovering over the dumpster full of money. He snarls and says something, but I can’t hear a word he’s saying. I want to call time-out or something so I can turn off the disco.

I’m ready for it when it comes. He opens up with the Tommy gun, hosing the portable office down with fire. I’m already back flipping off the structure as it disintegrates. I land next to the Murderizer, who looks like a broken doll. I’m worried that I’ve killed him.

Drugs and rock 'n’ roll, bad ass Vegas hoes

Bullets zing and ricochet overhead. I cower behind a backhoe.

Late night booty calls

I pop out from behind a backhoe with Fancy Dan's Tommy gun in my hands.

Fancy Dan’s facing the wrong way. I aim right at his jet pack…

…and fire.

Shiny disco balls!

The gun bucks in my hands and the jet pack explodes. Fancy Dan spasms, then falls burning like a ragtime Icarus into the dumpster full of money. I couldn’t make up a more fitting ending myself.

I turn off the MP3 player, and in the sudden silence I realize that there are several helicopters overhead. Approaching police sirens echo in the construction pit. Somewhere up on Third a car blows up. Everywhere I look there is twisted metal, fire, black smoke – carnage. “Dude…” I say to nobody in particular, awed by the destruction.

Time to get the hell out of here.