We came to an agreement, she would claim self defence, and my name would never be mentioned.
With the selection of bruises I had unfortunately left, I didn’t think it would be a very hard sell.
The walk home was, odd to say the least, I took off the getup, costume, weapon, whatever you want to call it, and walked home in an ill fitting set of jeans and a sweatshirt.
“ Guess I am a giants fan now. “ I say to myself, realizing that, on top of it all, talking to myself is not really a good sign.
It was a typical new york night, an odd mix of silence and racket, folks yelling, folks laughing, and none of them had the slightest clue of the absurd situation that had just transpired.
I got away with it, I find myself thinking, again and again. Somehow, I had turned what was supposed to be a kamikaze run, into the perfect crime. I find myself wondering if this means something, probably not. For all the criminals that get caught before they can draw a knife to mug someone, I guess there has to be someone that is the flip side of that coin.
I walk down the stairs to my door, and something catches my eye, a piece of paper tacked to the door. My first thought is that it is another eviction notice, but I remember this is one of the few months I am all squared up on the rent. My eyes take a second to focus, and on the paper is written one word, in a thick, slashing scrawl.
Stop.
“ Weird” I mutter, taking the paper off of the door, and crumpling it. Probably just some kid , drunk, homeless gent, all are in abundance around here.
First stop is a rummage through the cupboards, and as I thought , between 2 dozen bottles I manage to get a waterglass full of liquor and backwash. I slam it down and sit , right there on the peeling linoleum.
I waited for it to come, that sinking feeling, that crushing of my soul that is supposed to come with having to kill a man. You hear it all the time from war vets, gang members, and anyone else who has had to shrug off the conventions of society and kill.
Hours go by, and nothing. As a matter of fact , the longer I sit, the more I realise that there is nothing wrong with what I did. With maybe the exception of hurting the wife ( to this day, I still refer to them as the husband and wife.) .
Psychosis maybe? I don’t really think so, maybe a case could be made for during the fight itself, but now, I am calm, not eerie dead eyed calm, but normal, boring night calm.
Sleep came, and went, the next few days , I spent nursing the many bruises and cuts I had sustained, not to mention hand washing the outfit. This was my first real epiphany.
Why was I washing it? This was supposed to be a one time thing, even moreso now that being caught red handed wasn’t part of the plan. I should have thrown it out, burned it, hell shredded it and covered it in bleach first. But there I was carefully washing the blood from the clothing, and making mental notes as to where it needed repair.
Day 5 bought another surprise, a phone call.
“ Hello, Giggles the clown, birthday parties , bar-mitzvahs and more, how can I help you. “ I say, my standard opening.
“ I need to pay you.” The voice on the other end says.
“ O…k…, while I am happy to hear that can I ask who is calling. “ I say, not putting 2 and 2 together that quickly at 10 am.
“ You did a, birthday party for me a few days ago, and helped me, with the computer…” It clicks.
My voice is nervous all of the sudden, why is she calling me? Tempting fate when a murder charge is on the line is not the smartest thing on earth.
“ Oh, no problem, I left you a note on the counter, stating that payment wasn’t needed. Don’t worry about it, I wasn’t at the top of my game that day. “ I say, double speed, hoping to end this conversation, and maybe change my number.
“ No, I don’t feel right. I need to pay you. I’ve already taken out the money.” Her tone says more than her words. And I know, that this conversation isn’t going to go where I want it to.
“ Well I am a little busy today, maybe I can stop by next week sometime…” I say, trying to sound as if she is bothering me.
“ Today, in 2 hours, I need to get this done. “ is the last thing I hear as the line goes dead.
I start to get that same feeling I did before the , lets call it , “the event”. Maybe the cops grilled her and she broke, maybe someone saw me, maybe this is just a sting to get me.
But in for a penny , in for a pound, as the cliché goes. And really if the cops wanted to find me, my number would be enough. I have no idea how to run from the cops, hide my identity, get an alias, or any of those things that are second nature to criminals. Here or there, if they want to catch me, they are going to.
2 hours later and I find myself getting an odd sense of déjà vu, I knock on the door, this time in street clothes, a pair of faded jeans and a black dress shirt, with a set of sunglasses to cover up the lingering black eyes.
The wife comes to the door, and motions for me to walk inside. As soon as the door shuts she says , “ So it was you.”.
I genuinely laugh, no secrets between us now, “ Of course it was me, did you think it was a coincidence that it was a six foot clown?”
“ I wanted to be sure. “ She says, while I have been dealing rather well , she seems distraught. “ Here, it’s no where near what you deserve but it is what I can spare. “ For a moment , the word ‘ deserve’ sets me on edge, and I tense as she reaches into a purse on , a new table, by the door. But it is no gun, just a rather thick envelope , I open it, and find 4 grand inside. More money than I see in half a year.
And I take it. While doing good for good’s sake is great from a fictional standpoint, it makes the hero seem more, heroic, in the real world, people need to eat, and more importantly for me , at the moment, drink.
There is a moment of silence, awkward, and I feel the need to break it.
“ So how did things… turn out?” I ask, shifting from one foot to the next a bit.
“ … fine, I suppose. Clear cut case of self defence is what they called it, I have a few more interviews, but everything looks like it is going to be okay.” She is trying to hold back tears, I don’t really know what to say, when I need to cheer folks up, I usually bust out a whoopee cushion, or juggle. And I have a feeling this situation calls for a bit more than that.
“ He was a monster” I say simply, when I see her reaction, I seriously think maybe the whoopee cushion would have been a better idea.
“ I fucking know that!” she screams, “ It isn’t him I am upset about, it isn’t me either, I have no guilt for what I did , fucking none. “
I back off a step.
“ Then , what?” I ask , somewhere between genuinely curious and comforting.
“ Try explaining to a kid, all of this shit. Then try explaining to him that his father, the monster, is dead. That prick had him so mixed up.” she starts crying , heavily, and between choked sobs explains more to me. “ He had him believing this was normal, just what fathers and sons do. And it was all under my fucking nose. He blames me!” she screams, staring at me, almost as if to dare me to contradict her.
“ You told him?” I say , confused. Now it was her turn to be exasperated.
“ Of course not, I told him he fell down the stairs, but its like… he knows. “ My discomfort is at an all time high. What I really want to say is ‘ He is dead, your kid is no longer being raped, count your fucking blessings.’, but I can’t.
“ Listen, this is a fucked up situation, for all of us. But like every fucked up situation from cheating to world war 2, its going to pass. Your better off without him, and for a 40 something year old broad, your not that old looking, or wrinkled, I am sure you can find another old guy. “ I grin, and the shock of the joke breaks her out of the sobbing.
“ I’m 42 you asshole.” she says with a bit of a smile.
“ And I’m 27, your old enough to be my mom.” Humour has always been my first recourse, and this situation is no different.
“ If I was 15 when I had you!” she is wiping tears away, makeup smearing.
“ I don’t judge.” I say condescendingly. And out of no where I add, “ Here is my card, if you need help, like this, or you know anyone else who does, just give me a call and say your cancelling the Bar-mitzvah. Make sure it isn’t from a blocked number. “
My words shock me as much as they do her.
“ You do this kind of thing, a lot?” she asks, curious.
“ Between you and me, I almost didn’t even do it this time. I don’t know what the hell I have got myself into, or for that matter, even what I am doing. But it’s a damn sight better than getting puked on, and called a faggot under the breath of guys like your husband. And, it seems to pay better too. “ I say, feeling comfortable, for the first time in the conversation.
“ You know, in comics, the hero never takes a reward. “ she says throwing a verbal jab my way.
“ In comics the hero has a good paying day job. “ I respond, “ That 40 you were going to give me for the party doesn’t really cover bullet proof vests and Shark repellent. “
We share a laugh , and there is another moment of silence, I use that opportunity to take my leave.
I am home for no more than 10 hours, when I get another call.
“ Giggles the clown….” I am interrupted almost immediately, the voice’s sex is ambiguous, but it sounds a bit shaken.
“ The um… Bris is on, or …off, I think. “ the voice says, though mangled, I understand what it is getting at.
“ Okay sir, well I will have to collect the cancellation fee, where would be a good place to meet?” I say, keeping the conversation non sketchy sounding much better than the person on the other end.
“ How about Tim’s dinner, on 42nd?” it says shakily.
“ I’ll be there in an hour. “ I say and hang up the phone.
So this is it, the more I think about it, the more I think this is my first real…job. “The Event” was more a prologue , a stumblefuck of moral, physical, and mental proportions that lead to this.
I don’t go in costume, but I do take the time to put on a beard, some contacts, and a very well done, if bright red wig. ( looked too real, never found a use for it before.)
And in the mentioned hour , I am there, sitting in a dirty dinner, most of the patrons seem to be nursing coffee , and dressed in faded torn clothing, and the more I breathe , the more I realize that the smell of onions and shit, is probably coming just as much from the customers, as the food.
For a moment I reflect on how terribly un funny actual hobos are, nothing like the clean, but ragged costumes I have donned.
I sit, and as it seems to be the order of the day, order a coffee and drink it ever so slowly.
30 minutes late he arrives, his clothes are old, and he looks worn out, but not to the extent of the homeless surrounding me. He has a dark black beard, short and well kept, long hair but clean. And a nervous demeanour.
He passes me a card.
Theodore Johanson, Pastor, west side united.
“ I’ve been waiting for 30 minutes.” I say trying to sound like I have done this all before.
“ I’m…sorry, I just… wanted to be sure, this wasn’t some kind of…”
“ Police sting?” I say, a bit of a smile creeping into my face.
“ Exactly.” He says looking down, to the side, anywhere but my eyes.
“ Well maybe it is, seeing as if it is, your already arrested, why not explain the problem?” I say, keeping him on edge.
“ We have problems , large problems. A group of men, who choose to… harass some of the members of our church. “ He says, slowly.
My boner is killed, harass? I am not a security guard, I may not know what I am, at the moment, but stopping some people yelling fuck off, is not what I am here to do.
“ Not interested, I suggest a baseball bat and learning some foul language.” I get up , and in that way pastors have perfected, he puts a hand on my arm, stopping my progress as he tosses down an article, faded and yellow from the paper. 2 years old , it talks of 3 homeless men being tied and burned “ Like logs”.
“ Okay, you could have told me you were the world understatement champion.” I say sitting back down.
“ This doesn’t happen all the time, mind you. But it , waxes and wanes , you could say. I just don’t want it happening again, I don’t want them…” I stop him.
“ Okay, I get it. No Falling Down action. “ He looks confused , and I start to wonder if I am the only person who has seen the film.
“ They congregate outside of an alley in front of the church, several of my members have issues, with alcohol, and as we do not let them drink, they chose to… imbibe close by. Leading to , many unfortunate incidents. “ Its my turn to tap him on the hand.
“ Thanks for lobbing me a softball here , I’ll have it taken care of. “ And this time I do leave.
I sleep that night, actually I sleep the next day as well, getting up around 7pm. By now, most of the wounds attained have faded to dim aches. I put on the costume, and as I do, I find myself doing it in the same order, with the same movements that I did before. I realize this is the start of a ritual.
I briefly think of getting…something better than a set of steak knives, and a cut down curtain rod ( obviously, a new addition to the ‘ arsenal ‘ ) , but decide against it. Too much attention, and to be frank, if I could do the job with this equipment, I can certainly scare a few thugs with the same.
I walk to the address on the card, bad area of town, graffiti covering any available surface, garbage blowing about, and the only half functioning sign is the neon one in front of the church, reading “ ned urch” , either this is the united church, or some guy named Ned Urch really wants people to know he lives there.
The alley is foreboding, from the sidewalk, one can barely see the end of it, and out of a dozen or so lights on the side of the buildings only the one at the far end is functioning. I barely make out the forms of about 5 men, too far to tell any defining characteristics, I start to walk down the alley. My body language starting to become that blasphemy of everything I have been taught. A jerking, sweeping walk, hands held low but far out, everything that sets off that primal fear instinct in the human brain.
I am starting to work up a good rage, to feel confidant in what I am doing.
Then I nearly shit my pants.
Suddenly out of seemingly no where, someone is standing in front of me. Not the tallest person on earth, around 5”7 or so, I would guess 150 or so pounds. But dressed at least as strangely as I am.
Over his face is a loose knit kind of cloth, protruding from this is a set of goggles, glowing slightly green. At first I assumed the waist length leather jacket he wore was simply gray, upon further inspection it was an epically faded american flag pattern. His shirt and pants were of a similar fabric, though the pants looking a bit more tightly knit, and with plenty of loops, buckles, and hooks carrying an assortment of items I couldn’t recognize.
“ Stop, now.” He says simply, blocking my way.
I am silent, this is a total curve ball. Who is this guy? One of the gang members? Maybe a friend of the husband? Was this all just a big set up?
“ Go home, burn that shit, and feel lucky you got away with murder, this is your last warning. “ He says, not quite monotone, but sounding very unconcerned.
I take an inhale from the device, getting lightheaded for a moment as The Heavy hits my lungs.
“ Or I could just keep walking, shove your tiny ass out of the way, and do some good here.” I say taking a few steps forward.
He chuckles a bit, not a forced nervous laugh, but a genuine chortle brought about by him believing that my statement was obviously absurd. Needless to say my confidence takes a blow.
“ You could do that, not the smartest idea , but well within your rights. “ he says, not moving at all.
“ Why not just shoot me in the back or something? Is there something important about this speech?” I say, the heavy starting to fade, as my voice starts going back to its normal tone.
“ We aren’t like you. People like you think you can just bypass the entire legal system every time something happens that turns your stomach. I don’t get off on killing , clown, I just have a job to do, and that job is to keep people like yourself, from starting a fire. You think you’re the first asshole to put on a costume and try to fix the world?” He laughs, again genuine, like he has been doing this for a while, “ Not by a long shot , and ever since the first idiot to try this, Uncle Sam has had guys like me here to make sure that you insane fucks don’t turn this country into anarchy. What do you think is going to happen when you actually start doing enough of this shit to get noticed? Some other idiot, is going to put on a stupid costume, but maybe this guy doesn’t have as high standards as you, maybe he starts throwing pipe bombs in porn stores, maybe he knows , in his heart the president is ruining the country, and needs to be stopped, maybe he got beaten by some cops, and decides to pick as many as he can off from a building. No matter what, this new asshole, is going to get followers, and copycats, and on and on it goes. We have cops for a reason, we have courts, for a reason. And we don’t have half insane children’s performers doing these jobs for a fucking reason. “
Any combat is 80% attitude , another gem from Joe Rogan.
“ So what do they call you? Buzzkill? The Slippery Slope? Cheesecloth?” I say, trying to play down the fact that I am slowly realizing I am very, very far out of my element.
Another chuckle, “ Actually, they call me Freeman.” And by the time he starts the last word his hands are up, for a second I think he is giving some kind of surrender. Maybe my one liner hit home or something, but in the dim light I notice two cylinders flying at me, and just as they reach the edge of my peripheral vision. The both explode.
For a second or two I black out, I come to holding my ears and stumbling around in a thin fog, that is starting to burn my eyes.
My back hits a wall, a fist, hits my head, my head hit’s the wall, I hit the ground.
My vision is swirling, which is not helping the situation with the fog, I try to spring to my feet , something I can do in an instant, and have done a thousand times before. Before I get halfway straightened , a boot hits my chest, I manage to stay on my feet , but only barely.
I look around, tears pouring out of my eyes, trying to find where in the hell “ Freeman” went. It isn’t that the fog is that thick, it isn’t that the sting is that bad, and it isn’t that I have been knocked into a stupor , it is the deadly combination of these three things. The thought hits me, that this is exactly what he intended , and again, I realize I am facing someone who, to coin a cliché , really “ Has my number”.
Long before I notice Freeman, I notice his jacket on the ground. And by the time I can even begin to think of why this may be I start to fall to the side. 6 inches shorter than me, at least 40 pounds lighter, ( not to mention the fact that, a life of clownery gives one a decent, if not epic muscle tone.) and still I am being taken to the ground , and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.
I put my hands up defensively , and feel a series of blows, it feels like the man Is swinging a hammer into my versus a fist, I take a few hits to the face, as I move my hands trying to get some kind of handle on what is going on. In the brief seconds I get, I see why his jacket is being left unattended.
The cloth of his costume is blurring his form, not completely, but throwing enough visual static, that in combination with the fog, and the fact that I have taken no less than 12 blows to the head, I find it hard to get any bearing, even if I could attack, I wouldn’t know where, all I can see clearly is the outline of the goggles.
My face feels like one gigantic throb, blood pooling on the ground under me.
“ You know, even if we lower the bar to just fucks like you, your still bottom of the barrel.” He says, very matter of factly, as he stops throwing blows for a moment.
That moment, was all I was going to get. But I am used to having to take advantage of a moment, comedy is timing, acrobatics are timing, prestidigitation is timing. Timing, is kind of my thing.
I feel his weight shift, as he grabs my forehead with his left hand and draws his right back for a strike that I am guessing is meant to kill me or knock me out. My calves curl under my thighs, and once my knees clear free of his body , I straighten my legs, throwing myself into a rather painful skid, backwards.
I hear tearing, I feel something sharp dig into my back, but , for all intents and purposes my plan worked. I manage to get to my feet, stumbling backward, as Freeman stands tall and starts to stalk toward me.
“ Really? “ He says, drawing out something from waist holster. “ How much blood you think you can lose asshole? Bet your starting to feel a bit dizzy aren’t you?” He says, as the thing in his hand, some kind of club, or baton, makes a whirring noise.
I start to try to move a bit, loosen myself up, I begin to sway side to side, snakelike, wishing I had some weapon, some real weapon , other than luck , kitchen equipment, and a half assed grasp of psychology. I realize something at this moment though, my only advantage, is that he thinks I am no threat. And by the way this is going , maybe I am not, but I am not the “ Guns N Ammo” “Soldier of fortune” , armchair soldier he thinks either. I am not in this for the thrill.
And then it hits me.
I make a comically loud hocking noise, and hold a hand out in front of me , all of the flash strips in it, I spit, a disgusting massive glob of phlem, saliva and blood. And as I thought I managed to get this oyster onto them before they react with the air. I pretend I am rubbing my hands together , itching for the fight, getting off on the battle itself. Just like he would expect.
I throw my hands up and wide, “ Come on!” I scream, inviting him to take his best shot, which more than likely would turn me into a bloody pile. He shrugs a bit , chuckles a little more and says “ You are the first clown that has actually made me laugh. “ as he charges , his from going from almost defined to almost one with the smoke , in an instant.
He is expecting a punch, and as such starts his swing early, negating a reach advantage, the whirring steel club coming in fast. But I wasn’t going for a punch, in fact what I did could barely be described as a blow.
I roll with the hit from the club, managing to only have my left arm go numb for a second as it connects solidly. But as it does, I rub my hand, lightly across Freeman’s face, the dark red glob standing starkly against his otherwise indistinct form.
I skip to the side, heavily favouring my left arm, I quickstep backwards as far as I can , and instead of pressing he stands , looking at me. His body language couldn’t be more clear, but just in case he begins to speak.
“ So you smeared spit on me…”
“ ….5.…” I say.
“ Really? Why not just give up? You don’t have anything a doctor can’t….” He continues
“ …4...” I continue cryptically. Huffing in a hit of helium.
“ Fix, why not keep it that…”
“…3...” I say, drawing the word out for a long time.
“ What the fuck are you….” He begins to say, but starts to rub at his forehead. “ son of a bitch….” he continues as he starts to try and move the mask around. I grin widely.
Back in the Victorian era it was considered to be a sign of wealth to have a coin shaped scar on one’s hand. Why you ask?
Well clowns, have always had to have a close relationship with prestidigitation. There is only so many times one can get a laugh by getting hit with a rubber mallet, or a pie. And near the end of the Victorian era, the big trick on the block was “ Heated money”. It was half way between a séance, and a magic trick. The effect was blamed on spirits of past owners of the coin, in reality , obviously, it was nothing so supernatural.
There was two ways to pull this off. The first involved knowing what kind of coin was going to be used and soaking it in a glass of cold water, a quick pat dry, and the coin would be overly cold when originally used. Strike up a bit of conversation as you tell your mark to watch your hand, making sure you havn’t switched coins. Toss the coin to the mark, and now instead of feeling like it was a cold coin going to body temperature, they would marvel as it felt it went from normal to quite hot.
This first method required one to be good at palming the coin, creating friction and selling the effect. And like everything, people just get lazy, and this is why the second method was invented.
A strip of treated magnesium was affixed to the back of the coin. The heat from the mark’s hand would start its slow lightless burn. And 9 times out of ten, by the time it got hot enough to hurt them, they would drop the coin.
But lets think about this for a moment. This was the Victorian era, technology, was not exactly perfected, this held just as true for sanitation as prestidigitation. Some folks would get normal Mag strips, untreated, and instead of a slow burn rising to intense, the strip would ignite much faster, heating the coin, and leaving many nobles with a permanent reminder of the performance.
Ironically, these later performers became preferred , as better conduits to the nether realms. As always, losing is winning when you’re a clown.
The mask ignites, mainly in a 2 inch area between the goggles, with a sickening hissing noise I hear the white hot metal hit flesh.
“ Fuck!” he screams , trying to find a handhold in the mask, but whatever it is made out of seems to be melting as the heat reaches its apex. Leaving him with , undoubtedly painful globs of the plastic like substance on his hands.
Within a second , the magnesium itself is out , though a few small bits of mask remain stubbornly smoking or with tiny licks of fire trying to gain a foothold. But distraction was what I was after.
Fuck Joe Rogan, fighting isn’t about attitude, or momentum, fighting is about being able to do the most vicious thing in a given situation. To not worry about “ Fair Play” or “ fighting dirty” , to do as many terrible things to as many soft parts of your opponent as possible.
And some people, just can’t do this. This is why I am still up and fighting. Freeman was more worried about making me see I was wrong, or giving me a chance to give up, when he should have simply planted that club in my skull as I walked by.
I charge, with no fanfare, no quip, no sound that isn’t absolutely required, and take advantage of his distraction. He may he stronger than me, but leverage is a wonderful thing. I pin his head between my shoulder and the wall of the alley and grab the front of his uniform with one hand and the back with the other. I give every ounce of effort I can to pressing against his head, as I pick him up, just enough to get him off the ground. I then start running.
The stride is awkward for a moment, but once I get used to the friction , I build speed. The effect is terrible. First to go is the right goggle, three steps in it gives way, and I notice, not an eye underneath, but what appears to be a port of some kind , with red, inflamed flesh on all sides of it. I keep up the run, knowing that once he gets his bearings, I will have exhausted my only trick that has worked. I hear the noises, of steel , flesh, and bone grinding against the wall, he throws an elbow, from his cramped, awkward position, but it still manages to knock the wind out of me. Knowing the trick is almost played out, I simply heave him straight forward, and a half second before he lands on his feet, he realizes there was a dumpster in his path. The grip that is used for stabilization when it is being unloaded, snaps one of his ribs with a loud pop.
He actually staggers forward a bit before pulling out a long wide combat knife and getting into a low stance. The port where his eye should have been is sending out an off white fluid in erratic spurts , he actually looks hurt, not out of the fight , by any means, but hurt.
“ My timing was off on that one, sorry. It would have been a lot cooler if I got to one before that happened , wouldn’t it?” I say, drawing the steel curtain rod from my coat. I feel like I am brining a cap pistol to a mob war, but it does give him pause.
“ Fuck me, “ he says angrily. “ John!” he screams “ going to need you down here, lucky fuckin’ shot from the clown. “
Suddenly a window explodes, and jumping from it, is the largest person I have ever seen in my life.
7 foot 5 at the very least, and so wide it seemed to beg the question how exactly he got from the window. Unlike Freeman, he wore only a pair of old jeans, torn and faded, held up with a length of thick rope. He was a black man, but to say that, is not doing him justice. His skin was an artificial midnight black, the whites of his eyes were only a slightly lighter black, with the exception of a thin red iris. He was intimidating, imposing , he barely seemed, real. He seemed like what every KKK member would have nightmares about, just a collection of all the most intimidating physical stereotypes attributed to black folks, exaggerated, and put together.
And this isn’t to mention the fact he was holding two hammers, heads easily twice the size of a cinderblock, with thick 4 foot steel handles, he spun them around like they were nothing and pointed one at me.
“ Think your going to get a lucky shot in again?” His voice, completely in contrast to his appearance sounds very intelligent, more fitting for a college professor than, whatever the hell he is.
I hear police off in the distance. And as I pick up on this I also hear a “ Fuck” from Freeman.
John, turns toward him, “ Police are on their way. Non informed police by my guess. “ he says calmly, as if he has had to have a conversation starting with this, with Freeman , many times before.
“ I know, god damn it. “ he says venomously. “ We’ll be meeting again, fuck face, And your going to wish you took me up on the offer.”
And with that they both take down the alley, the thugs, long since departed, I try to keep up with them, but between the fact that I can barely move without pain, and that they would be faster than me on my best day, I am left in the dust rather quickly.
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