If you couldn’t totally make out what was said, or were simply so stunned by stupidity that your brain refused to register the words, here’s a transcription for you: “Why were the loud speakers telling people in the audience to be calm moments before the bomb went off? Is this another false flag staged attack to take our civil liberties and promote Homeland Security sticking their hands down our pants on the street?”

This gets dumber, sadly, but first: Deval Patrick has ice water in his veins. He delivers a cold “No.” which grammatically should not have a period after it because I’m still taking about it in the same sentence but I am breaking the rules for it because that is how definite that answer was. I know we definitely shouldn’t make long term political decisions based on solitary moments that say nothing about a person’s beliefs or convictions, but I would vote for Deval Patrick. As much as I wish he would have sarcastically replied, “You got us! Thought we’d get away with it this time,” that stern “no” that reads closer to a “fuck you” serves just fine.

Ok, on to the dumbness. That “false flag” question wasn’t just posed to the Governor. (If you’re wondering what a false flag is, in this context it’s an attack orchestrated by the government and disguised as a terrorist attack, perpetrated in hopes of pushing an agenda or expanding power. The Atlantic has a piece up about it.) It was actually asked of Boston Police Commissioner Ed Davis in an almost equally appalling way.

The question starts at around the 0:58 mark, though the start is a bit muddled, it isn’t hard to make out the thundering denseness in the voice of the, uh, reporter from the previous clip. Transcribed, the question reads: “They said they were doing drills this morning for the same exact thing that happened according to BostonGlobe.com. Now where you’s guys given any warning ahead of time of this taking place?”

Again, the answer is no, though Mr. Davis navigates it with slightly less bluntness than Governor Patrick.

It’s surprising that the questioner was able to spew his brain-ache inducing question on multiple occasions. Conspiracy theories are all well and good, but it’s not too often one presents itself so publicly and so immediately. I mean, who would bother to ask about an inside job while first responders are still on the scene, saving as many lives as possible and doing everything short of working miracles with limited supplies and information?

Luckily, we know exactly who would do such a thing: Dan Bidondi, “correspondent” for Alex Jones’ Infowars.com. Name not ringing a bell? Congratulations! You’ve never been exposed to the journalistic equivalent to the  Not too surprising given that he works for the guy most famous for being a professional lunatic. Not to discredit Alex Jones or his company entirely because I’m sure there are kernels of truth somewhere within his tirades, but being right–which he rarely is–doesn’t make him any less crazy. You’re likely not a crazy person, so why would you have heard of a correspondent to a crazy person? You wouldn’t.

But maybe you do know Dan Bidondi, “27x Professional Wrestling Champion.” I’m sure you’re thinking, “Oh, you meant Bionic Dan Bidondi? Then of course I know him!” Or you’re not thinking that at all because you’ve integrated yourself as a functioning member or society and still have no clue who Dan Bidondi is. Well, it’s time to get familiar. You can start your journey at Bidondi’s website. Hosted by Angelfire, the most popular choice for web hosting amongst people with an affinity for digital glitter graphics and traffic hit counters, Bidondi has secured a URL that is uniquely him. “angelfire.com/wrestling3/all_american/.” Not only is he all about wrestling, but he’s a 100% pure-blooded American. Also, the number three, which I’m sure was chosen for a very important reason and was not at all done because someone else had registered “wrestling” and “wrestling2.”

This belt was definitely not rewarded for “excellent use of Photoshop.”

Bidondi is a part of nine different wrestling federations and being crowned champion an impressive twenty -seven times. That feat that has earned him over 1,646 friends on Myspace which despite being updated as recently as 3/14/2013, still has graphics celebrating the “1998 World Champions” Chicago Bulls. And it’s clear wrestling is important to Bidondi as it finishes third on his interests listed on Myspace, finishing behind just God and family, but beating out friends and ghost hunting.

You would think with all that attention Bidondi has to give to his leotard, he’d have a hard time not only being informed enough about a subject to act as an effective reporter, but also be available on a regular basis to cover breaking events. Turns out, no. He’s actually got all the time in the world to make a complete ass of himself and information does not particularly concern him. As long as he can shout “Infowars.com” before his question and follow it up with something resembling a complete sentence, he’s done his job. There might not be many skills that cross over between professional wrestler and journalist, but it’s nice Bidondi can make believe he’s both.

Man, what the fuck do you do in these situations? Feels like we’ve dealt with them more than we should and I still don’t have an answer.

— AJ Dellinger (@ajdell) April 15, 2013

I didn’t receive a reply to that question. Now, let’s set aside the fact that I have very few followers, the majority of the ones I do have rarely engage with me at all, and it would be impossible to offer a complete thought that answers that question and stays within the 140 character limit of the platform and instead focus on the symbolism that I’m trying to force: There is no code of conduct for calamity, no procedures for disasters. No matter how many times we’re put in a position where we have to attempt to process another tragedy that has taken a new form, it never feels formalized in any way. Which, really, is probably a good thing. You never want to feel adjusted to horrific imagery or unfazed by senseless violence and destruction. But there should be a certain level of awareness that we have at this point that we can call upon to respond sensibly. So here’s a very quick and dirty list of my procedure for dealing with tragedy:

Confirm the safety of your loved ones. It might seem a little selfish to rush to your own inner circle, but these are the people that matter to you and their livelihood directly affects your own. Make sure those that you care about are unharmed and unaffected by the happenings.

Give, one way or another. This is probably the most direct response to take to any sort of tragedy. If you’re near by, give time and volunteer to help those affected if possible. If not, give money or give blood. Those are two things that there can never be enough of and the both can help save lives. If you can’t give either blood or money, then give thought. If you pray, give that. Do note that as a last resort, though, as thought and prayer only improve your own understanding of the situation. I know the immediate reaction of many religious people is to pray, and for as thoughtful as it may seem, there are ways you can act to provide actual relief, no matter how small it may be

Spread information. With social networks, Twitter especially, news breaks with every refresh. It’s an amazing resource and should be used by everyone to it’s full capacity. No matter how many followers or friends you have, reaching one more person that would have otherwise been in the dark makes it worthwhile. Overlap in these situations is a good thing; News feeds should be spammed with information. Resources like the Boston Globe’s Google document to help people stranded in Boston find a place to stay, Google’s Person Finder, and the phone numbers for finding connecting displaced people (617-635-4500) and for offering the authorities tips (1-800-494-TIPS) cannot find enough eyes.

Just make sure what you’re spreading is factual. It’s hard to fully vet information in developing chaos, but you can generally tell good reports from bad. For example, the New York Post reported a Saudi national was being guarded in a hospital for questioning. Whether this was true or not–and all other reports indicate it’s not–the Post was also claiming twelve were dead and continued to report it for hours when every other news source cited two deaths. Facts and numbers change, but bombastic “news” outlets don’t care–they run with what’s most shocking. Speculative stories spread quick, Also, for all the good social media can do, it’s capable of doing the exact opposite as well. A fake Twitter account  was created within minutes of the event that claimed every retweet would result in a dollar donated to victims of the bombing. This does nothing but encourage people not to actually donate.

Start recovering. Though it’s far easier said than done and everyone’s path will be considerably different, the best thing that we can possibly do is to move forward. That’s not to say forget about it, but quite the contrary. The bombs that were detonated in Boston were set off on Patriots Day, a local holiday ripe with tradition. Since 1959, the Boston Red Sox play a morning game so the crowd can be let out in time to see the first runners cross the finish line at the Boston Marathon. The entire day is a celebration of the city, the community, and the legacy of the country.

While it’s hard imagine terrorist-like attacks placed into that history, it isn’t so difficult to fit overcoming it into the narrative.It’s moments like when the bombs went off, a time where terror would be at it’s peak, that hundreds of people decided not to run from the explosion but to run to it. The Marathon continued, but it ceased to be about finishing and started to be a race to help the wounded. Runners who had passed the point of the attack continued through the finish line and to a hospital to donate blood. Those are things to be celebrated. Those are things to rally around. Those are the stories that you want to tell on a day that is all about legacy; that in the face of chaos caused by a small amount of people, a community–local, national, and global–came together, acted selflessly, and extinguished the flames. That’s where the recovery started.

So, that’s it. I wish there was a specific formula for knowing out exactly how affected we should all be by these types of happenings (Take how many people you care about that were involved in some way, multiply by how far you are from the event and divide by how many months ago the most recent tragedy was?), but unfortunately we have to figure that out on our own. Worse, we’ve been doing it more often than usual lately. There’s no surefire way to handle tragedy, but we’re figuring it out. I think these four steps are worth following. Let’s just hope we don’t have to take them again any time soon.

And yet here we are, a couple days removed from a huge outcry against the suddenly “disgusting, vile, racist” publication because of a 140-character joke from its Twitter feed. The Onion’s tweet without any sort of context, it is indeed pretty vulgar. It refers to a nine year-old girl as a “cunt.” (I’m going to use the word in question in full. If I were to just say “the ‘c’ word,” you know what word I’m talking about. If the other three letters offend you, censor it in your mind.) But reading the tweet without context isn’t fair because it hinges entirely on it. Satire is a form of commentary and you can’t have commentary without something to comment on. That is to say, it requires context. Let’s take a step back and provide just that.

During the 2013 Academy Awards, host Seth MacFarlane performed multiple jokes that apparently struck a nerve with viewers and were perceived to be sexist and misogynistic. Everything from the opening number in which MacFarlane sang about seeing the boobs of famous actresses to jokes about Chris Brown and Rihanna’s relationship to women losing weight by vomiting were all pointed to as evidence of MacFarlane belittling women. Go figure the guy who created Family Guy–a formulaic, shock-centric, go-for-the-easy-joke show–would make formulaic, shocking, easy jokes. How dare the host do the thing he literally always does. How could we have expected this? Surely the fact thats he’s created three shows that are all from the same template and wrote a movie that exploited a similar style of humor weren’t dead giveaways.

So while Seth MacFarlane is on stage being Seth MacFarlane to the complete shock of apparently everyone, the Onion was providing its usual timely commentary on Twitter. One such joke was in direct response to MacFarlane’s performance that very night. It also happened to be the joke that has been the cause of controversy since it’s arrival, despite only being visible for less than an hour. That would be the tweet in which nine year-old actress and star of Beasts of a Southern Wild Quvenzhané Wallis was called a cunt.

Except that she wasn’t called a cunt at all if you pay attention to the context. The tweet came in the midst of a performance that was viewed by many as sexist. It came while the host of an award show about the art of filmmaking was chastising the women in the industry for exposing their breasts and for being allowing themselves to be objectified. The tweet isn’t meant to be read veritably, as if it’s to be believed that this child is actually so insufferable that one would walk away from a conversation with her and think, “Wow was she a little cunt.” It’s meant as a diatribe during Seth MacFarlane’s continued attempts to grab low-hanging fruit. It’s supposed to say, “Look at the way we talk about women in the media.” Even though it’s a fake media outlet, the Onion is still part of the media. So when it tweets “Quvenzhané Wallis is kind of a cunt, right?” it’s taking the attitude the rest of the media exudes and exaggerates it to its most extreme. It gets to do that, being satirical and all.

Funny thing is, seven years ago this never happens. Without Twitter, in a world where we have to wait several hours (gasp!) before commentary is available, that joke winds up never leaving the writer’s room. With an outlet that allows for immediate responses to live events, though, the Onion is able to offer some poignant but time-sensitive observations. It’s a great way to get humor during otherwise humorless events (the creation of an alternate Joe Biden personality–”Diamond Joe”–who tweeted during the Presidential debates being a perfect example). But it’s narration that requires the reader to be paying attention to what it’s referencing.

If anywhere, that’s where the real failing of the Onion was. It tweeted something controversial assuming it would be perceived as a footnote to the book of the Oscars; That the people seeing it would understand because was hashtagged with “#Oscars2013,” it would be assigned as a reference to something that happened during the show. That, of course, was not how it was read. It was read as a comedy site crossing the line and calling a little girl a cunt. When everyone is reading that way, it becomes extremely difficult to defend.

And the Onion didn’t defend it. At least its CEO didn’t, as he issued an apology the morning after. Far be it from me to tell the CEO of a successful business what to do, but he shouldn’t have apologized. This was the Onion being the Onion. It was doing exactly what it was supposed to do: Draw our attention to an area where we are failing so we can fix it. Now is when we’re supposed to be talking about how the media talks about women and how the gender is treated. Instead we’re scolding a comedy site for using a naughty word.  Now it’s apologizing. While that apology is meant to take back the tweet as how it’s perceived, it’s really taking back what the tweet stands for. There’s now a line for the Onion, a point where satire cannot go and problems in our society that cannot be mentioned. Words that cannot be said are far more damaging than any words you can say. Funnily enough, it’s moments like this that the Onion would normally be providing biting commentary. Instead, they have to say nothing.

—

After all that, I’d like to go ahead and quickly ruin any of the good will I have remaining with a quick final aside. Let’s stop pretending like “cunt” is such a terrible word. It’s existed for hundreds of years as just another synonym for vagina, no different than “pussy” or “snatch.” (“Snatch” is way worse, by the way. Not that it’s offensive, it’s just a shitty word. Ladies, if a guy refers to your private parts as your snatch, do not let him anywhere near it.) It didn’t become an insult until the 20th century and it isn’t even a gender-specific one. Guys can be called cunts in the same way women can be called dicks. In other English-speaking countries (cuntries? I’m sorry), it’s most often directed at males. It’s a “bad word” to the extent words can be bad–something we should probably all get over at some point soon–but it’s no worse than cooch, cooter, punani, vajayjay (don’t use this word near me, please), hoo-ha, quim, lady flower, yoni, twat. It’s not a word that is expressly derogatory to women and it most certainly is not the female equivalent of the n-word. That said, since I believe in equality so: Dick, cock, prick, wiener, pecker, shaft, rod, boner, trouser snake, dong, tallywhacker, knob, member, peter. I hope we’re all happy, or at least equally offended.

It wasn’t hard to keep up with what Claire was up to. The paper she was carrying and set down inside the apartment was her latest project: A newspaper. A city like Polk, there were plenty of news sources floating about and only so much news for them to cover. Claire’s paper wasn’t chasing the same headlines as the others, though. It was making headlines in the others, but Claire was focused on harassing public officials and taunting her pursuers–myself included–via the written word. There’s something exciting about seeing your name in print, though the thrill subsides when the words that follow your name are phrases like “filled with unthriftless talents,” “purveyor of fraudulent authority”, and “self-pitying brown-noser.” The girl could write.

Whatever abilities of avoidance she was using on me, it paled in comparison to the sidestepping she was able to execute on law enforcement. In the two weeks it had been since she was in my apartment waiting out the lawful gaze of Paragon and in that time, she had become the object of interest for every cop in the city. I received calls to take on the case last week. They came sporadically but lined up perfectly in correlation with the distribution of the “New Polk Times.” Within the hour of the paper appearing on news stands, the calls came. Three days in a row this week, now completely independent of circulation because it’s about the greater nuisance. Today I finally said yes. Yes, I’ll take the case. Yes, I’ll do what the cops can’t–if only because of the threat of what happens if I keep turning it down. I don’t need Paragon playing hero on this one.

I have to stop down at the Polk City Police headquarters to pick up the file. They want me arms with all the information they’ve collected thus far. How useful it’ll be, I have no idea. I know Claire’s not exactly a hardened criminal–hardened, sure, but criminal’s a stretch–so they likely haven’t been using their full resources on her operation. Then again, the urgency expressed increased with every call. The last one made me think the city was burning to the ground. And here I come with a bucket of apathetic water.

“Can I help you?” The officer at the first desk inside the station asked. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. I could tell he was in training by tone. He wanted to be out on the street waiting for a crime code to be paged through his radio. Also he was filing a crime report in a box that was labeled “To Be Shredded.” That seems like a rookie mistake to me.

“Yeah, I’m meeting with Chief Jensen about a case I’ll be undertaking. Is he back in his office?”

“Oh, so you’re the ‘freelancer’ huh? They really give you the ‘important’ stuff, don’t they? Track down the girl at the liberal college who doesn’t like the government–there’s a tough assignment.” Ah, this was pleasant. Nothing I like better then the guy doing grunt work saying I’m not good enough. I eyed his desk.

“Are you sure you have time to help me? Looks like you’re really busy completely the latest episode of ‘Officer Cocksure and the Curious Case of the Unfinished Busy Work.’ I can just show myself back.” I wanted alliteration but it’s really hard on short notice.

“Without us this city doesn’t run, pal. You just get our scraps,” he countered. A fair assessment, really, though this seemed like a little more than scraps to these guys. Regardless, I figured it was probably best to let him have the last word. It seemed more important to him, honestly.

Offering a smile, I walked past him and back toward the chief’s office. As stereotypically noir as this felt, it kind of comes with the territory. It’s nearly impossible not to sucked up in the atmosphere, which is why I don’t really blame the paper pusher back there for resenting his work load. He was still an asshole, but better an asshole with a stack of paper than an asshole with a baton.

“There you are, kid. I was wondering when you’d get around to coming down here. You really take advantage of not having to punch that clock, don’t you?” Speaking of assholes, the Chief of them greeted me as I opened the door to his office. I was never really a fan of this guy, and I’m pretty sure the sentiment was likewise. I mean, I’m the second generation of person that is putting his crew out of business, though really he should be thanking me. If I committed to the damn thing fully like Paragon does, he’d be looking for work instead of passing it on to me.

“I work odd hours, what can I say?” I had no interest in making this a long conversation. “What do you have for me?”

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a manilla file. It wasn’t too thick, so I knew I wasn’t working with much. Not that I expected much, but it’s always nice to be a little surprised.

“We’re turning everything we have over to you. Names and aliases, accomplices, last sightings, locations the paper has been found. Everything.”

“Did you use a really small font, or something?” I asked jokingly.

“Size 12, Times New Roman. That’s the standard. That’s the rule.”

“Are you guys issued a sense of humor at all?”

“No.”

“I appreciate your honesty. Anything else for me?”

“Yeah, we’re expecting some results with this case kid. Do whatever it is you have to do, but make this problem go away. The mayor’s been breathing down my neck about this for the past week and his breath ain’t pleasant, you know what I mean?”

“Did he have onions or sauerkraut or something?”

“Not that I’m aware.” He started, as I smiled at him and raised my eyebrows. “Joke again,” he realized.

“I’ll be in touch,” I said, as I turned out of his office and headed back toward the doors of the building. I saw a significant stack of folders sitting in the outbox on the desk of my greeter. I put my hand out as I walked passed his desk, knocking the stack to the floor.

“What the?!” was all I heard as I left through the double doors and headed down the short row of steps. An asshole with a stack of paper is better than an asshole with a baton, but he’s still an asshole.

“Oh do you have the same crazy guy that yells random accusations at you from outside your apartment as I do? Small world,” I said, hoping a joke would defuse the tension that having an unknown man screaming at you often creates.

“Louis, you are harboring a person suspected of illegal activity. You are currently the accessory to whatever crime she may have committed or is planning to commit. I must continue to urge you to remove her from your quarters at once,” Paragon said in his usual stern and serious tone.

“She’s petting Eula, and Eula is being extremely complacent. Does that make her equally as guilty?” I asked him as I approached the window to see the top half of his face, brushed with shades of red from the urgent need for action.

“You know animals cannot be convicted in our human courts. The cat is safe from the law, but I would not trust a criminal on the lamb with any possession of mine,” Paragon offered, as if to say I would some day be the cautionary tale that a grandfather tells his grandson when a troublemaker of a girl catches his eye. “She may seem tempting to you now, boy,” he’d say, “but when you wake up in your jail cell cold, alone, and cat-less because some floozy with flowing hair, full lips, and a habit of being bad steals your pet and implicates you in a crime, don’t expect Gramps to have any sympathy.” I don’t know why people in the future talk like people in the past in that example, but I’m going to start trying to bring back the word “floozy.” It has a charm to it, I think.

“Are you accusing her of being a literal cat burglar?” I said with a bit of a snicker at the thought.

“What was that?” She asked, not entirely making out the conversation I was having with Parry. She seemed to have a pretty good sense of humor about all the other implied crimes she had committed, what’s another going to hurt?

“He’s afraid you’re going to steal Eula,” I turned and explained, laughing between words. Judging by the whiteness that rushed to her cheeks, the redness that ran through her eyes, and the balled up fist that occupied the hand not still stroking Eula, I assumed she found it less funny than I.

“No it’s funny. Like, you’d be an actual cat bur–” She put an end to any joke that may have been there.

“Shut up,” she said with force, the words almost palpable as they landed on my whole body rather than just my ears. She gently lifted her hand from Eula, picked herself up and took a full two steps before her other hand became embattled with the first in a “who can make a more intimidating fist” contest. It was pretty even from where I stood. Both were terrifying.

“What exactly gives you the goddamn right to…to accuse me of something that…evil,” she said through gritted teeth as she stomped toward the window. Her mouth barely opening to push the words out but the message did not lack volume. “And the fuck are–” she stopped as soon as she had a clear vision of her prosecutor. Her head swung toward me almost immediately after the identity was clear to her.

“What the fuck is he doing here?!” She shouted at me, one of her fists raising instinctually with her voice. I doubted she had any intention of hitting me, it was just an intense moment.

“He, uh, lives around here,” I said as one eye kept contant with her and the other tried to trace the motion of her fist. I was still pretty sure she wasn’t going to hit me, but it can’t hurt to keep note of these things.

“You know him? What, do all you so called ‘heroes’ hang out together? Do you have backyard barbecues to celebrate when one of you jails an innocent man?”

“I, no. That’s not a thing we do at all. There’s only the two of us, anyway. What a pathetic party that’d be. Besides, do you know how hard it would be to find a card for that kind of event?” The end of my sentence was punctuated, not with a period, but with a swiftly delivered “thawack,” followed by the unmistakeable sting that usually follows a punch. She punched me. I watched her hand the entire way, from cock back to the forward push to the impact on my left shoulder. I raised my right hand to it and rubbed it a bit to ease the smarting.

“You punched me,” I said, stating the obvious.

“You were being an idiot,” she said, doing the same.

“That’s fair. I did shut up though, didn’t I?”

“You did for a second when you were babying yourself.”

“You punch really hard. Like, impressively so,” I told her.

“Thanks. Are you sure it’s not just because you’re incredibly weak?” She offered as an alternative, with a bit of a smile developing midway through.

“Good chance of that, too. If you have any other feats of strength to perform, could you do them on someone else so I can watch from a distance?” I asked, only partially joking. It was then Paragon rejoined the conversation with another few knocks.

“What exactly are we going to do about him?” She asked. “I know I can take you down, but I don’t want to deal with him in a fight–or a conversation for that matter.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said.

“What do you mean? Of course you wouldn’t worry about it, you’re not the one he’s after. It’ll take him all of two seconds to get in here once he decides he needs to keep me from dirtying the minds of the community with my crime-causing posters and words.”

“It would, yeah. But here’s the fun part of this: Paragon is unrelentingly good. He can’t break a law, even for justice. He doesn’t have a warrant to get in, he doesn’t own the building, and he doesn’t even pay rent. So the worst thing he can do at the moment is be mildly annoying–” I was briefly interrupted with by some more banging on the windows. “–And probably cause a very light breeze if he knocks on that window frame a few more times. I’m going to have to call maintenance and get that caulked.”

“So? I still can’t go out there while he’s there. Got a solution for that one?”

“No, but it looks like you could use some more coffee,” I said as I picked up her mug and walked toward the kitchen. Before leaving the room, I turned to her. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Right, what about him?” She answered without looking up from her massage subject. Eula struggled to keep her eyes open through the entire thing, and I couldn’t help but let out a little laugh.

“Enjoying yourself, La?” I asked with a chuckle. Eula let out a dull meow which fluctuated up and down, like a singer using vibrato, matching the motion of the girl’s hand. Couldn’t even let out a full meow. She was really milking it.

“Pathetic, La,” I told her. Not that I blamed her. I petted her plenty, and she was always happy to make it clear when she felt like she deserved a little more attention, but I talked to her more than anything. She responded nearly every time I directed something to her. Sure, she couldn’t actually say anything in response–just different tones applied to meows and purrs–but she listened and replied. Sometimes it doesn’t really matter what is said in response, it’s just nice knowing what you said was heard. Right now, she was able to get the physical loving she loved without having to talk or listen. Her current attention-giver was buffering those parts of her responsibilities.

“The Dazzler was this terribly inept wannabe that popped up right when Paragon Man started getting a significant amount of attention. She didn’t get started until the early 80′s–” I was interrupted.

“She?” The girl asked, apparently surprised by the revelation that the Dazzler was a female.

“Yeah, she. She first popped up in 1980 and.–” Again, I was cut short in my storytelling.

“So what made her so inept, huh? She wasn’t as good as the guys?” she asked, her tone becoming a bit accusatory.

“No, she was just particularly bad at fighting crime.”

“Because you’re so good at it. Don’t you have a ‘criminal’ in your house?”

“I have someone labeled as a law breaker in my apartment, yes. I happen to find the law you broke to be worth breaking and you to be a decent, if not a bit abrasive, person. If you want me to skip ahead in the story to explain why she was so terrible and how it has nothing to do with her gender, I will. There was a fire in the second story of an apartment building and she showed up to try to help put out the flames. She beat the firefighters there, climbed the fire escape and in the second-story window, and started to knock on doors to rescue people. Oddly, it turns out being an exceptionally good dancer and having sparklers and bottle rockets in your sleeves offer little help in an electrical fire. When she tried to get into the room where the fire was, her sleeve caught on fire and started setting off the fireworks in her outfit. At this point, firefighters were up the stairs and were greeted by a light show in the hallway that affectively blinded them. Once they were able to see again, they dragged the Dazzler out and put out the fire.”

“What about the people in the building?” She asked, engaged in the story.

“There were none. The building was undergoing renovations and no one was living there at the time, which is why no one answered when the Dazzler knocked. Or, more specifically, knocked while singing ‘Staying Alive’ by the Bee Gees. She just managed to turn an electrical fire into what was briefly believed to be a terrorist attack.”

“Really, terrorist attack? Doesn’t that seem a bit extreme?”

“Eh, it was the 1980′s. They didn’t know what a terrorist attack would look like, or that terrorists probably wouldn’t attack a small, two story apartment in a city that isn’t even the biggest in the state.”

“Hold on,” she said with a voice that hinted she just had a revelation. “This was in the ’80′s?”

“Yeah,” I confirmed.

“And she was a disco themed hero?” she asked.

“You see why she was terrible?”

“Yes. Yes I do,” she said.

“Honestly, that’s just one of the stories of her attempts to save the city from the dangers that weren’t that dangerous until she showed up. You know what doesn’t help in a hostage situation? Synth keyboard. Not exactly the soundtrack to reasonableness,” I explained, flipping through the clippings of stories.

“Why do you know all this? And why do you have newspaper archives about her? Do you have a little hero crush on the Dazzler?” Though her last question seemed jokey enough, the other two were legitimate. I never really thought about the fact it might be weird I had papers that chronicled the actions of a failed hero from over thirty years ago. Probably should have considered that beforehand, because now I had the choice to look like an obsessive freak or tell the truth and subsequently still look like an obsessive freak who lives above an old man who wears tights at all times. Neither are really great options.

“I uh–” I was cut off, something I was starting to get used every time I opened my mouth. This time, however, it wasn’t another voice canceling mine–it was pounding at the window. I looked over and saw the perfectly combed hair that sat atop a brow that had grown bigger over the years, clearly viewable in some of the images from papers I was holding.

“Who’s banging on the windows?” the girl asked with some irritation. Her hand didn’t completely leave Eula, but it raised far enough up that it was no longer entangled deeply enough to be an additional color in her orange and black coat. This was enough for La to expel a small complaint as she raised her head and opened her eyes fully for the first time since I came back.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” the girl said, lowering her hand while trying to stretch her neck high enough to see out the window without standing completely. She was conflicted between the two things she seemed to be most driven by: her love of animals and her hatred of people that annoyed her. She wouldn’t have to deal with this internal struggle for long, as the mystery knocker would reveal himself.

“Louis, I order you to eject that criminal from the building,” Paragon shouted, barely muffled by the glass.

Before I offer any insight (a term I use lightly when describing my own opinions), I feel obligated to point something out. Owning a gun is a Constitutional right. A person can make a case about how it shouldn’t be, or how it’s not as important as rights like freedom of speech, or things like the ability to marry a loved one regardless of gender deserve a little more consideration as a right, or how it’s a total misinterpretation of the original text and has no place in our current society. All of that aside, owning a firearm is a right.

With that established, no one is going to take away guns. There will be people that make the case for it, but understand they are statistical outliers. That doesn’t nullify their opinion or mean it’s less valid, and I strongly urge you to consider the reasons behind this belief rather than dismiss it. It’s just unlikely to gain any real traction as the vast majority of people oppose a complete gun ban. You can’t create a case against the most extreme version of something and pretend that’s what people believe. Just because gay people want to get married doesn’t mean someone’s going to try to start a polygamist cult–especially since someone already did, called it Mormonism, and got it recognized as a religion–and just because people believe assault rifles are excessive doesn’t mean someone is going to knock at your door and search your house for guns to melt down. Besides, the Supreme Court has already ruled gun bans to be unconstitutional, so let’s be reasonable in this discussion.

Now that caveat has been placed, we need to look at ourselves a little. There’s this tendency to point to other countries like Switzerland or Israel and say, “They have significantly less gun crime and anyone can get a gun there.” That’s true. It’s also true that there is significantly less gun crime in countries where firearms are banned, like Japan and South Korea. It has little to do with the laws, it has a lot to do with the culture. There’s a common bond between Switzerland and Japan despite their huge discrepancies in firearm policy: Both countries rank in the top ten in the world in education and both countries are among the best in income equality in the world. It’s no coincidence that most gun related violence in the United States is committed by uneducated people in poor neighborhoods performing working class jobs.

It doesn’t help that we’re a violent society. Like, really violent. Historically so. We’re actually on a downward trend when it comes to assaults in the country and we’re still at nearly double the rate per 100,000 people that any other modern, first world country is at. If you’re interested in drawing a correlation in that statistic, gun ownership in the US started dropping at right about the same time the assault rate did. The graphs trend the exact same way. That’s not necessarily a causal link, mind  you, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to say, “when you take away an overpoweringly violent weapon, people tend to be less violent.”

Look, a lot of the statistics surrounding gun control is really murky. I sat and tried to put together a purely statistical argument for stronger gun control and it’s difficult to do. A person can point to a city like Chicago or Washington D.C., places with extremely strict gun laws, and quote the high amount of gun crime that takes place there. I’ll defer to my earlier point: Those cities have grossly disproportionate income distributions and struggling school systems. Fix that and there will be fewer gun crimes.

In the case of these mass shootings, though, stricter gun safety measures can be effective. In fact, they WERE effective.    According to officiers involved in the Connecticut shooting case, Adam Lanza attempted to purchase a rifle three days before the massacre and was denied. He was able to obtain guns from his mother and the more information that comes out from the investigation, the more we will find about why she had so many firearms and why her son knew about them. If he didn’t have access to them, whether that means she doesn’t own them or she kept them locked away and unobtainable for him, the results may have been very different.

We learned after the shooting in Aurora just how easy it can be to obtain massive amounts of firearms and ammunitions without anyone taking notice. Unless you live in one of the four southwestern states that boarders Mexico and attempt to buy more than two guns in five days, your activity won’t register on anyone’s radar. Every transaction you go through with a car requires proper paperwork be filed, but you can sell piles of bullets online or take firearms to a gun show and sell it like you set up a lemonade stand.

I’m not saying take all the guns away. I’m saying let’s change some of the laws that enable these terrible events to occur. I understand people want guns for hunting purposes or for self-defense, but those reasons do not justify owning an assault weapon. It’s one thing to hunt with it, and it speaks volumes to just how sporting you are, but it’s another thing to say you need it for protection. Unless your house is constantly under siege by small armies, I assume a pistol is more than intimidating enough.

If you can present to me a reasonable argument as to why a background check, slight waiting period, and firearm registration is somehow detrimental to you, I will present to you a person I do not want owning a gun and I will do it by showing you a mirror. Your gun isn’t going away if you can pass a background test, wait a couple days, and fill out some paperwork. I’ve never encountered a scenario where I woke up one morning and thought, “Oh shit! I need a gun today.” I’m willing to be you haven’t either.

These are simple laws and we should have no difficulty passing them. They are beliefs that are held by the majority of the population and are complete no-brainers. There’s this odd misconception that gun safety is somehow a liberal agenda, but it fits right at home with a lot of conservative beliefs. If you supported the PATRIOT Act on the grounds that you’re willing to give up a little personal freedom for the general population’s safety, these laws would fall right in line with that. If you’re in favor of voter identification measures and oppose same-day voter registration then you’re all for waiting periods before exercising your rights and basic background checks.

This is easy, guys. I’m trying to disarm you by having a conversation, but no one is trying to disarm you by taking away your guns. Let’s get something done to save all of us from these very avoidable tragedies. Then we can start working on fixing the education system and the equality gap in this country and make the 32 gun crimes that happen every day disappear.

“You can’t join our club. You’re stuck with you,” she replied as her fingers itched lightly against Eula’s belly. Eula laid her stamp of approval on this by rubbing her head against the back of the girl’s hand as it crept back toward La’s chin.

“I thought we were sworn enemies from the moment we met and you were going to fight me and my backward justice system until the very fabric of society was changed,” I finished as I shook my head at Eula’s complete immersion into a thorough petting.

“You’d be right, if you weren’t the worst ‘hero’ ever,” she said, throwing air quotes around the word “hero” with her free hand.

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think? I always thought the Dazzler was pretty terrible.”

“Who’s the Dazzler?” she asked in a confounded tone.

“You’ve never heard of the Dazzler? Alright, hold on for just a second.” I turned and walked out of the room and back toward the kitchen, stopping briefly to look over my shoulder quickly and make sure she wouldn’t follow. This history lesson would require a journey into the cave to retrieve some old newspapers. Knowing my luck, she’ll shout something to me from the living room or have a request of some sort or just generally do something that would require a response and I’d ruin any good will built up by not calling back. As a preventative to this, I figured it best if I turn on the intercom system before venturing under the sink. All it took was a flip of a light switch and my preventative action would be complete. I reached out, placed my finger under the switch, and lifted up. Grinding noises started immediately. Wrong switch. Flipping that one down and the one next to it, I heard the light buzz of the speaker as it started. Just as I opened the cabinet under the sink to crawl in, I heard her voice.

“Everything ok in there?” She called out, and I heard partially through the wall and fully through the intercom as I started my descent. Speaking through the other end of the intercom, I replied.

“Yeah, went for the light and missed.” Slightly embarrassing, but not quite as bad as the true shame that was the self-fulfilling prophecy that I put in motion by trying this trick in the first place. At least it seemed to work.

The makeshift metal elevator touched down on the basement floor and the rubber of my shoe followed suit as I stepped out into the hideaway. In the corner of my eye I could see Paragon with the outlining glow of the computer screen surrounding him. Here’s hoping he wasn’t watching the webcam outside of the apartment. If he was, there are two possibilities of how this will play out and I don’t want to deal with either of them. Had he actually identified the girl, I’d have to come up with some sort of story about how I’m simply talking her into peaceful surrender. If he hasn’t figured out who the girl is, I will be reminded of the poor virtues that my generation has and that we mustn’t give in to the allures of promiscuity. Every interaction between the sexes can lead to these breakdowns in chastity. I know it’s not just a Paragon thing, it’s a generational thing. But when it comes out of a man that still wears tights that outline his junk in an extremely unflattering fashion, it’s that much harder to take seriously.

Don’t get caught with Paragon junk imagery in your head, idiot; go look for the paper. I have to remind myself of these things sometimes. It’s hard for me to wash disturbing imagery out of my memory. I’m pretty sure that’s my reason for almost everything I do–I have to be distracted to keep these burned visuals from reappearing. Luckily I had a stack of papers to search through to readjust my focus. I knew about where the paper I needed was located–the ’70′s pile–so it should be a quick search.

I went straight for the era of which it would be in and started paging quickly through the aged paper. The crumbling sound of my search alerted Paragon, and he turned from the computer and toward me.

“Going through the archives?” he asked.

“Yeah, just some research I’m doing,” I replied without looking up.

“Oh, I thought perhaps you were showing the girl something.”

“Parry, you know Eula can’t read,” I answered, hoping to throw him off somehow.

“The girl that walked in the building with you. The girl that you were to stop from paving the college walls with messages of criminal behavior and moral corruption. Did you do that?” he asked. I feared he knew the answer already, so I’d have to play this in a way that would cover my ass and buy some time.

“I spoke with her last night and told her to come over today so I could mount a full case for the righteousness of the law with documented evidence.” Smooth. Perfect.

“You’re reasoning with a criminal? Hmm. It’s unorthodox, but if effective than all the better. Perhaps I should join you in your attempts at persuasion,” he offered, standing up.

“I don’t think that’s necessary. She seems pretty rational. If I need extra fire power, though, I know who to call,” I replied, flashing him the finger guns to indicate I meant him. God I hated the finger guns. They always seemed to appease him, so if I really needed to put the emphasis on an action that I wanted from him, I’d turn to that. He sat back down, so they seemed to remain as effective as ever. I holstered the finger guns. Seriously? Did I really have to holster them? I feel so dirty now. Ugh, I need to get the paper and get out of here. I grabbed the couple front page stories about the Dazzler and removed them from the heap. Just then, the speaker crackled again.

“Hey Louie, you coming back out here or what? I could use a refill on this coffee,” her voice rang through the static.

“Louie? How does she know your identity?” Paragon asked as he jumped to his feet.

“I…uh, established trust by offering information about myself?”

“You never surrender such information! What if she were to turn and use it against you? I cannot in good conscious allow you to lead the negotiations with this woman any longer. You’ve allowed too much power to slip from you and she is too dangerous for you to continue leading this operation,” he said as he started to walk with confident steps toward the elevator. I bolted to the door and closed it quickly as I pressed the button to return to the kitchen. “Coming!” I called through the intercom on the way up.

The rise reached the sink and I slammed down the emergency brake so it wouldn’t return down upon Paragon’s call. He’d have to use his exit and come around the front of the building. That I could handle. I just couldn’t have him inside the apartment.

I paced a little in the kitchen as the coffee machine chugged along. Steam rose from the crack between the flap top lid where it should close smoothly over the machine. It’s been too long since I remember it closing correctly, so I assume it’s always been that way. I opened up the refrigerator, the off-white that used to be normal white door held open as I grabbed cream to go with the coffee. Half and half or skim? Honey maybe? What type of person does she seem to be? Am I going to gain any ground by asking myself these questions and am I simply setting myself up for disappointment by even attempting to presume an answer? Yeah, probably. I’ll just take them all.

Behind the wooden door of the pantry that sat aside the refrigerator was packets of sugar. Thousands of them, since you can buy them in bulk for not a lot of money. You don’t even have to be an actual coffee shop, it turns out. I figured they’d check for that kind of thing and I flashed my City Protector badge when purchasing it, as if it were for some sort of very official police related business. Perhaps we were going to circulate it in drug ring in hopes of catching disgruntled cocaine users–though thinking about it, that sounds like an awful way to catch them but a very good way to get them very, very angry. Or maybe it was for the break room in the police station, since there’s that old connection between cops and donuts and coffee. Or maybe I’m thinking about this way more than the cashier that checked me out did when I showed my badge for no apparent reason and none of it matters now as a I have a giant box of sugar packets sitting in my pantry. I grabbed two just in case and still had plenty to spare.

Anything else that I should get? Would it be rude to not offer some sort of snack or meal to go with coffee? I already established I’m not a cafe so I assume it’s not totally expected, but it seems like the right thing to do. What do I have here that I could serve up? Toasted bread. Toasted older bread that is potentially a health risk. A burnt grilled cheese, as that is the only way it’ll turn out if I make it. Runny scrambled eggs, which I didn’t even know was possible until I accidentally did it every single time I make them. Half a jar of pickles, though obviously it wouldn’t be required to eat all that is in the jar. I’ll just ask when I take the coffee out. That seems the most reasonable response here.

“I thought you moved faster than most people,” I heard called out through the wall. “Where’s that coffee?” She asked.

“I do, but I can’t make the machine move any faster. I could shake it very fast but seeing as this isn’t hot chocolate mix, that would probably just throw hot water all over the place. I could make the trip to an actual coffee house very quickly, but I have to wait in line at the same speed as everyone else. The world moves at the same pace no matter how fast I go.”

“Well, just bring it out when you’re done–making it, that is. Not when you’re done rambling on, because I imagine you’ll never make it out here then. I’ll be bonding with Eula here.”

Bonding? I could only assume that meant something like performing the slow chase that I had done so many times with La. Get close enough to touch her and she backs off just a bit. Move closer again and she maintains a distance of a couple cat steps and an hand’s length or so away until she’s in or under something that allows her a barrier from you. She was a total lover when she wanted to be, and she softened a bit with the people she liked as she got a little older, but she also increased her distain for new company. The fact there were no hisses coming from the other room was a minor miracle, though there was a low grumbling sound I could faintly hear. I could only expect she’d unleash the usual boxing-like paw swing before she headed for higher ground. I figured I ought to make it out there before that happened to comfort La, and get a little laugh in at the same time.

I heard the machine sputter to a stop. It was perhaps the most pathetic sound any hardware could make at the end of its duty, a near sigh of relief that its work was done though the task it completed is literally the only thing it’s built for. Still not sure at what she’d need to accompany her coffee, I grabbed a tray to take out all the offerings. Well, wasn’t a tray as much as it was a sizable wood cutting board, but it functioned about the same. Placing the now full mug, both the half-and-half creamer and a glass of skim milk, a bottle of honey, two sugar packets, and a spoon for mixing on the tray, I started making my way out to the living room.

“I wasn’t sure how you liked your coffee so here’s all the–” I stopped mid-sentence as I turned the corner into the other room and nearly dropped everything that I had just loaded the tray with. “You’re petting her?” I asked in shock.

“Yeah, I’m petting her. I told you were were bonding.”

“But it sounded like she was growling at you,” I said in confusion with the inflection of a question.

“Yeah, most people call that purring,” she replied.

“La, is that true?”

With her eyes still squinted a bit between blinks as she looked up toward me, she let out a sizable yawn before offering up her chin for scratching to the hand of a stranger.

“There are people that have been around this cat on a regular basis for years that still haven’t earned the privilege of providing under-the-chin rubbing. Yet you waltz in here and win her over like nothing. Do you douce yourself in catnip before leaving the house? Is it the fact that you’re so damn catty yourself? This is…I don’t even know what to make of this, to be honest with you.” My mouth hung open a little too long after that sentence, but my jaw was literally dropping at this.

“I just have my ways, is all. It’s like how people who speak different languages can still communicate through a universal sense of humanity,” she explained. “For example, if I didn’t speak English, I would still find a way to express to you that I would like my damn coffee.”

“Right, I was saying I didn’t know how you liked your coffee so I brought out some options,” I said as I pushed the tray out to put all the choices in front her. She looked them over very briefly, though her focus was clearly on the mug. She grabbed the handle with little hesitation and turned away before crouching back down by Eula.

“Just coffee,” she said. I probably should have figured that.

“Well if you’d like something to eat to do with that I can–” she interrupted.

“Just. Coffee.”

“Ok, but you’re missing out on some mean toast.”

“Thank you for the coffee,” was her reply as she reached her hand out and brushed it gently through the hair that covered Eula’s stomach.

“Belly rubs, too, La? You’ve gone soft,” I told her.

“She has not. She’s gotta be tough–she puts up with you. She just recognized someone currently experiencing that same struggle,” she offered between sips of her coffee as she continued to scratch every sweet spot La has.