Chapter XXII

Weapons of a Hidden Nature

World championships can be funny things.  I’d expect a challenge for my title match, but by the looks of things, this guy would be like all the rest.  He laid there on the mat with the referee pounding the ground beside him.  “. . . Eight . . . Nine . . . Ten!” was the call from the official as he got up and raised my right hand into the air to declare me the winner.  Back in the locker room, my coach gave me the same old speech on how I was good, but not good enough.  Funny how he didn’t change his speech for tonight; considering that I had just won the title of Heavyweight Champion of the World.  That’s right, I, Adam Hilumma, became the best boxer in the world.

The next few days were kind of a blur.  Press conferences, autograph signings, grocery shopping and even appearing on an episode of “Hollywood Squares” (I was the center square).  Finally, after a long and exhausting week, I was able to take a break.  Crashing on my highly expensive, Italian leather sofa, I turned on my plasma, “real to life,” flat panel TV to watch the game.  The minor football league was playing a game on ESPN 6.  Today’s match-up featured the Denver Omelets versus the Chicago Hot Dogs.  Things really didn’t get interesting in this game until the second quarter when a deranged spectator in a white parka and sporting a pair of nose-pinching sunglasses got up during the kickoff and fired two shots into the football still in hang-time.  To say the least, the ball dropped faster than the stock market during the 20’s.  Jumping on to the field, he ran toward the 50 yard line as security and the players from both sides surrounded him.  When it looked like there was no escape for him, he threw a smoke bomb down on the field and vanished.  The only thing that remained was the letters “CR” burning into the field with flames.

The only other exciting part was when Chicago fumbled the ball and the Denver team scrambled to get it.  In the end, Chicago needed a touchdown to catch up.  They made the touchdown and went for two to win the game.  To say the least, the Denver fans were not sunny side up about this.  Turning off the television, I decided to walk down to my favorite diner and get a bite to eat since that game made me rather hungry.

Grabbing my coat off my solid gold coat hook, I headed out of my apartment and started sauntering down the street.  Since it was kind of chilly out, I shoved my hands deep inside my jacket made from the leather of the sacred cows of India.  Just after I turned the last corner before I got to “The Greasy Café,” a police car pulled up beside me.  The officers got out of the car and came over to talk to me.

“You are Adam Hilumma, correct?” said the first officer. “That’s correct officer, how can I help you?” I replied in a rather egotistical tone. “Would you like an autograph?” The second officer spoke, “We’d like to see your license.” Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out my driver’s license and showed it to them.

“No Mr. Hilumma, your other license,” was the response from the first cop. “What do you mean?” I asked in a confused tone as I looked beyond them to the Café.

The second policeman began to explain, “You are a boxer, are you not?  And as a boxer, do you not know that your fists could be used as dangerous weapons.  You have the ability to kill a man with those fantastic fists of yours.  We saw you walking down the street with your hands in your pockets.  According to the laws of this town, you need a concealed weapon license in order to hide your weapons while in public.”

Still confused I asked, “So are you asking if I have a concealed weapons license just because I put my hands in my pockets?”  The first policeman answered my question, “That is correct.”  Responding to this odd situation I said, “I don’t know how to say this, but I don’t have a concealed weapons license.”   As I started to walk by to get to the diner, both policemen grabbed me and, after a struggle, put me in the back of their cruiser as the first officer read me my Miranda rights.  As we were driving away, I heard my stomach growling as I looked longingly at “The Greasy Café,” as we drove by.

I was charged with having a concealed weapon without a license, resisting arrest and wearing a leather jacket on Sunday.  My punishment for my “crimes” was either 30 days in jail or watching the movie “White Chicks.”  My jail cell, to say the least, was rather cozy.  My “roommate” was the man in the parka from the football game.  I was lying on my cot when he sat up and leaned toward me.  “Do you want to escape?” he asked me in a hushed whisper.  “Well, of course I do, I’m not in here for insanity,” was my reply.  “I know you’re innocent, so here’s the plan . . .” as he leaned a little closer, he threw down a smoke bomb as flames started tracing the letters “CR” into the floor.

When the smoke cleared, we were at the sheriff’s office.  “In order for this to not happen again, you’ll need a concealed weapons license, just to be safe.”  I filled out an application and turned it in.  As I turned around to thank the man in the white parka, I noticed the smoke clearing and the flames dying down.  He was gone.  I headed out the door while scratching my head in utter confusion.  Deciding to try and forget this entire ordeal, I hailed a taxi and headed home.

Note: Well, that’s it. This is the last chapter that I completed for my novel. There’s still the unfinished chapter, but I’m not sure if I’ll finish it now. Judging by the style of this particular chapter, I wrote it early on, but changed the title so I could fit another chapter in its slot. Now that I’ve re-read my material, a lot of it was certainly sophomoric, and the disjointed chapters certainly didn’t add to any cohesiveness, either in story or in style. In the end, I think I’ll just leave it as it was meant to be: a collection of random short stories.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: