She got in the back. A tall woman. Red heels, black skirt, white blouse. She wore a messy brown bun with blonde highlights. It looked as if a hurricane had blown through it.
But she was still fine. He heard a soft wolf-whistle behind him.
Before Wilbur could utter a single word, she pulled off her sunglasses and said, "In front of a fire hydrant? Really?"
He hadn't missed it; he just didn't care. "Ah, sorry." He shifted into drive and re-entered the stream of cars. "Where to?"
"I'll just give you the directions." She rubbed her face, looking tired.
Wilbur shrugged. It was all the same to him.
"Left. I can't see... here, let me move so that..." She unbuckled her belt and made to shift to the other side of the rear seat, but Wilbur stopped her.
"Don't."
The woman looked at him funny. "Why?"
He thought for a second. "Do you not see the beer stain?"
"There isn't one."
"So you don't." To make it extra convincing, he muttered some gibberish under his breath, containing the words "midnight", "parties", and "teens".
She stared at him in the rear-view mirror, her grey eyes stormy. But then she re-buckled her belt and leaned back.
After a spell of silence with the occasional "left" or "straight ahead" or "don't forget to signal" uttered by the exhausted woman, Wilbur tried to start a conversation. "How's your day been, Miss?" he asked, rubbing his grizzly chin.
"Do you really want to know?"
He nodded dishonestly. She'd pay more if he acted sympathetically, right?
"Well, if I were to sum it up in hyperbole, I'd simply say, 'I'd so love to be gone with the wind'."
"Why?" Wilbur eyed a driver that had cut him off, but a presence behind him urged him not to do anything rash.
"I'm Thomas Garrett's personal assistant, you know."
How do you expect me to know that?
"And, let me tell you, that man is demanding. Only today, he lost 4 documents and needed them reprinted, had me go on 7 coffee runs, asked for 3 grilled cheese sandwiches, even though he's lactose intolerant, but..."
It began to drizzle. Wilbur's hands tightened on the wheels as the woman's rambling went on and on. He had just gotten new upholstery. He didn't need this now.
His hands began to turn red.
The voice behind him. "Not yet. Breathe in."
He inhaled.
"Breathe out."
He exhaled.
But the woman didn't stop.
Do I look like I care?
Wilbur's dark eyebrows knitted. His shoulders bunched.
"Just hold on."
She reminded him of someone. Someone particularly annoying. A woman he really couldn't stand.
"...even though he usually only has microwave noodles on Thursdays. But he used to have noodles on Tuesdays, so I guess he wants to bring them back, or..."
Suddenly, Wilbur's hands jerked left, and the car followed suit, swerving onto the wrong lane. A red Sedan grew bigger, its horn crescendoed, and Wilbur slammed on the brakes.
It happened all at once. As the taxi skidded sideways, the Sedan seemed to reverse, pushed back by some invisible force. Myron. But the force was too strong, and it flew off the ground, into the air.
A strong gale blew in. The trees on the sides of the street bent over, and even a few people came off the ground. The sunny sky turned grey, clouds swirled, and the Sedan rolled about in the air.
Slowly, slowly, it began to descend until its wheels touched the ground, the wind cushioning it. And, in an instant, the people came down, the trees straightened, and the clouds parted, revealing the sun once again.
Beads of sweat covered Wilbur's forehead, and for a second he wished he had put on his seatbelt. He stared into the windshield of the other car, the driver and his wife holding each other tightly, fear and awe plastered on their faces.
"Thanks, Myron," Wilbur muttered under his breath.
"Fuck you, man." A pause. "Also, fuck Gayle."
Wilbur scoffed. She'd clearly been here. But what were they to do about it? Better here than the bank.
He turned around. "Are you alright?" he asked his passenger.
She looked breathless, and her bun had come undone. She rubbed her head. "Yeah. Um, after this is a left."
"You're not going to sue me or anything?"
"Left, please." She began to fix her hair.
Okay. He took the left, then a right, another right.
They stopped in front of the bank.
The woman placed a wad of bills in his hand. "Keep the change." She climbed out the taxi and headed down the sidewalk, ducked behind a bush.
Myron became visible again, and shuffled in the seat with the "beer stain".
"One: invisibility and telekinesis are a special pair of bitches. Ow. Two: what the fuck?" he said, looking at the bush and scratching his dark mop of hair.
"Screw it. Let's do this." Wilbur pulled his mask out of the glove compartment and put it on. He handed a special one to Myron. One that worked with his abilities.
"Hey, man's angry. That's what I like to see." He put on his mask and slapped Wilbur on the back. "Let's go."
They got out of the taxi and entered the bank. Myron disappeared from sight, and soon, guards began to fly about.
Wilbur held his breath and let angry thoughts fill his mind. His skin changed from white to red. He became a foot taller. And then he was no longer human.
"This is a robbery," Wilbur said to the cowering patrons, his voice that of a beast. He slammed his fist into a nearby ATM, totally wrecking it. He smiled. "Obviously. Simply hand over the money, and..." He looked at the guards Myron tossed around. "And less people get hurt."
"Nah, that doesn't work for us."
That damn high voice. Wilbur spun around to see Gayle standing at the door of the bank, her blue cape flowing and a column of wind swirling above her open palm.
"What about... you and Mr. Murray surrender now, and you get a year off your sentence. Does that sound like a plan?"
How did she know we'd be here?
That was when Wilbur did a double take. He recognized the messy brown bun with blonde highlights. It looked as if a hurricane had blown through it.
--
