Patrol Report

Last night I got some gliding practice in, swooping from one high rise to the other in Midtown.

I’m getting much better at it, the flying thing, but the winds in the artificial canyons of the city can be unpredicatble*. At one point during the night a rogue thermal carries me off course and right into a high rise condo. I smash into the metal railing of somebody's balcony with a horrible noise, scaring the hell out of some poor woman inside making dinner in a wok. She screams, obviously startled to see some dude with goggles and a cowl outside her condo, twenty floors above Sixth Avenue.

I untangle myself from the railing with a groan. I can smell the food cooking inside. Mmm, hoisin sauce...

The lady in the kitchen is backing away from her wok, eyes wide with fear, one arm searching for the phone somewhere behind her.

"Sorry," I call, smiling and waving. "Updraft." Like that explains anything.

The woman just stands there staring at me. She's about 40, perky haircut, red gingham apron.

"That smells great, by the way. What is that, Mongolian Beef?"

She turns around and dives for her telephone. Hey, I'd call 911 too.

"Sorry!" I yell and launch myself off the balcony.

Well, that will give her something to tell the gals. Or her therapist.

Let's see, what else? Later that night I push a stalled vehicle out of an intersection and bust up a fistfight in Queen's Row - two guys fighting over a taxi. Dicks.

All in all, a pretty average night.

*"Unpredicatble" is an accepted alternative spelling of "unpredictable" and I stand by my usage of it here.