Dead Weight

Part 2 - Showdown At Trader Joe's

I don't shop at these organic supermarkets. They cost twice as much as regular grocery stores. But when your suspect works at a Trader Joe's that's where you go. Anyway, these yoga-pants wearing soccer moms are making me reconsider doing a little shopping here maybe. They got a beer section - although I don't recognize any of the brands.

I was following a manager who was too old to be sporting the hipster beard and slicked-back hair through the produce section toward the back of the store. He walked fast and with very little bending of his knees or elbows. Not in a mood to run, I tried some friendly banter to slow him up.

"How can you stand the stink of vegetables all day?"

"I've been Vegan for years now and have never felt better," he barked back before bursting through swinging doors and fading into the dim, cavernous warehouse beyond.

I was starting to sweat and wheeze (a cigarette was in my very near future) but hustled into the warehouse before the manager lost me. I guess I could just follow the fumes of his cologne if I lost sight of the over-caffeinated prick.

"What the hell does a guy with no arms do in a warehouse?" I asked him.

"He's the pallet-truck operator."

"Naturally."

We approached a small office built on the warehouse's rear wall. It was the employee break room. Light from its open door cast a crooked rectangle onto the concrete floor. I followed the manager in.

The Champ was the only person inside. He sat at a folding table chewing on a snack pie like a cow chews its cud. He bent over a pile of paper towels that caught drops of masticated food that squeezed out from between his teeth. His jaw, although reconstructed, was too narrow and what few teeth he had did not line up. Add about 250 pounds of fat and a patchy-bald head on this poor slob's list of features and you don't get any sense that he was ever an all-American athlete. The Champ that the janitor at Bob's Barbells told me the story about was long gone.

The manager planted his fists on his hips. The classic, authority-figure pose he struck was intended to get The Champ's attention. But he paid us no mind - just chewed and watched the wall in front of him.

The manager's patience gave out. Not having his superior position recognized by a subordinate would not do. Now it was a question of the manager's honor. His ego demanded satisfaction; his managerial power must be demonstrated to this impudent underling. He swiped The Champ's timecard from a wall rack.

"You didn't punch back in again! You're docked 15 minutes!" He scolded.

The Champ still didn't acknowledge him. "Fuck off," he slobbered through chocolate cream and crust. Even with a full mouth The Champ's severe speech impediment was easy to spot. Like his tongue was too big for his mouth.

"Take an extended lunch break?" I asked him to cut the bullshit.

"Who's askin'? " he blat, spraying pie across the table.

"Biggs. Homicide." I flipped him my badge. "You don't look like you hit the gym much any more."

That got his attention. He stood up and stopped chewing. I got my first glimpse of a pair of mean-looking prosthetic arms. Skeletal stainless steel with pinchers like huge Vice-Grips at the ends.

"Relax, Champ," I barked. This big, dumb oaf wasn't impressing me "I just wanted to ask if you heard about the new National Champ in town."

The Champ sneered. At least I think that's what he did. "Heard what?"

"That he won't be pumping iron on the Olympic team. He's on life-support and probably won't survive to have a pretty makeover like you had."

People sometimes have bad reactions to what I tell them but this guy took the cake. He bellowed like a goat (must have been the odd shape of his mouth) and smashed the table with his hand clamps. I think the manager wet his skinny-jeans. Both of us got knocked onto our cans when The Champ stampeded out of the break room.

I hurried to my feet but probably looked more like a turtle stuck on its shell. "Strong for a double amputee," I gasped. The manager just whimpered. He was curled into fetal position next to the garbage can.

Time for the chase sequence. I sprinted out of the break room to apprehend my man. He was nowhere in sight so I stopped to listen.

"I don't blame you for being jealous!" I yelled. "But nobody's 'The Champ' forever!"

I never saw it coming. The Champ dropped onto me from somewhere above. I hit the concrete and he hit me a split-second later - all 500 pounds of him. I gasped for wind but he throttled me with one of his mechanical claws before I can refill my lungs.

"I'm The Champ!" he screamed, spraying me with snack pie. "I fought my way from zero to hero!" This guy had rage issues. He was trying to crush my neck. There wasn't much doubt he was the psycho who ripped the arms off and jaw of my vic any more.

Even in the last moments before death I couldn't keep my mouth shut. "You can.. still compete.. for the prison team," I gasped.

The Champ bellowed like an enraged goat, his stubby tongue-tip vibrating in the wind and phlegm of the roar. He clamped a pincher on my wrist and pulled. "See how strong I am?"

My body was pinned to the ground by his bulk; my neck and wrist were the opposite ends of a wishbone. Something inside my shoulder popped and tore. I tried to scream but there was no air in my lungs and the pincher locked on my throat wouldn't have let it through anyway. I was about to lose my arm, head, or both.

But then the pressure stopped.

A crate broke open over The Champ's head, raining Red Delicious apples around me. The Champ's eyes rolled back and he fell over unconscious, leaving me alive to fight another day. Above us, the manager held a broken apple crate. His black-rimmed glasses were crooked, his hair was pushed ahead, and he was breathing harder than me.

"Take that you lazy slob!" The manager shrilled. The excitement must have got to him.

I felt like a Stretch Armstrong doll that wouldn't return to its original shape. I rolled The Champ's senseless carcass off and stood up.

"Are you alright, detective?" asked the manager.

"No," I answered while struggling to cuff The Champ's heavy, prosthetic wrists behind his fat back. I felt like I needed a cigarette but must be the running and yoga pants were getting to me. I grabbed an apple from the floor instead. "I need to get in shape."

---

By the time I got to the parking lot, the apple started tasting bland. I tossed it behind a shrub near the entrance and fished a cigarette out of my pocket. I had nicely gotten it lit when the cops started to show up. I told them all they needed to clean up The Champ on their own. I don't like to hurry and today had been full of running. I was beat. And the reporters were close - I could sense it.

"Hey, Detective Briggs. How come you don't ever stick around to bask in the glory of the catch?" one of the officers asked when I passed him en route to my moped.

"I got no ego," I said.

THE END