The Bolt from the Blue (Working Title)

Chapter 15- Questions

Chapter 15- Questions

They both lay in John's bed, on their sides so they could fit, their hands beneath their heads, gazing into each other's eyes.

"So, what's" John's eyes rolled up to the ceiling as he improvised the trickiest, most irritating number be could think of, "thirty-eight billion, seven hundred ninety-six million, five hundred one thousand, three hundred and forty-two divided by," he smiled as he yet again devised a fiendish, obscure divisor, "eight?"

Sam chuckled as the answer unscrawled itself in his mind, "four billion, eight hundred forty-nine million, five hundred sixty-two thousand, six hundred and sixty-seven point seventy-five."

"Aw, I hate it when it's a fraction." John moaned.

"You can divide thirty-eight billion, seven hundred ninety-six million, five hundred one thousand, three hundred and forty-two evenly by three," Sam comforted him, "Or six. Or six billion, four hundred sixty-six million, eighty-three thousand, five hundred and fifty-seven."

"What's the likelihood of being struck by a meteor?"

"Absolutely zero."

John's brow furrowed.

"Meteors are shooting stars; by definition they burn up in the atmosphere. If they reach the surface, they're a meteorite." Sam explained.

"So, what's the likelihood of being struck by a meteorite?"

"One in two hundred and fifty thousand."

"That seems high." John frowned.

"You didn't ask if you'd be killed; things get hit by meteorites all the time. Cars and houses and such."

"Are you tired?" Sam shook his head, and John was relieved. He felt an amazing energy coursing through him- like he could leap the Grand Canyon in a single bound- but all he wanted to do was lie there in bed with his boyfriend. A new question occurred to John: "Who was Jack the Ripper?"

Sam grinned; he'd asked himself this years ago. "A man named Martin Pietrowska."

"And who was he?"

"Jack the Ripper; he didn't really do anything else of note."

John pursed his lips, "That's disappointing."

"Yeah; the guy I feel sorry for is the Queen's doctor. You know, the dude suffered a stroke before the murders even began."

"So why not set the record straight?" John asked.

"I don't want to give myself away," Sam answered, his smile turning sad, "It's why I don't work for NASA or the government; it's why I can't reveal where Amelia Earhart is or what dinosaurs really looked like. If people knew I knew these things, I'd be taken away and used as a living encyclopaedia for the rest of my life. I don't want that." He paused, "I know it's selfish."

"It's your life," John said, "You're under no obligation."

"Sometimes, if there's someone missing or a killer they can't catch, I'll phone in an anonymous tip- but I have to be so careful. If they realised it was all the same person telling them all this, they might begin to get suspicious why he knew."

"From now on, just tell me, and I'll go in there and solve all the crimes and be the best Super Hero ever."

"And then they'll begin to think that you've been kidnapping and murdering people so you can look like the best Super Hero ever." Sam pointed out.

"Oh. Good point." John conceded. And then a new question occurred to John, one that Sam shouldn't need his power to answer, "Why Politics? Why not Physics or Maths or Biology?"