Regrets of Childhood - Part Three

["The Fabulous One" Dan Fierce]

Regrets of Childhood - Part Three 

Dan hopped into his fuchsia Prius solemnly, his mind going in several different directions at once. Who was the boy who had handed him the Picachu keychain? Why had Jade turned so white and rushed him out once she saw it? Something wasn't adding up. He had a few dots, but had no clue just how to connect them.



Finally, an idea struck him. He had a friend in the police force who helped him on occasion when one of his "kids" got in a jam. Hell, the rookie used to BE one of his students. Time and a nice quiet run with the current batch of students kept them out of touch with each other. It was good because it meant that Dan was helping the troubled teens. It was bad because it grew a distance between himself and an obvious example of the success of his outreach programs.



He knew which precinct Gregory Jacob Marlow was stationed at. That would be his first stop. He needed someone who studied things like this. He needed to know if he was making mountains out of molehills, if he was chasing ghosts. He drove over to the 42nd precinct as fast as he could. He scampered up the steps, through the door, and found the receptionist. Like any other big city police precinct, it was bustling, but it wasn't what Dan would refer to as "Black Friday" busy.



The receptionist was a rather robust black woman of average height and a deep-seated grudge for the powers-that-be for chaining her to the greeting station. Even on a good day, she would be casting more attitude than a locker room full of teenage girls with aligned cycles. Today was apparently not a good day.



"What do you want?" she growled at Dan, which caused him to step back.



"Is Greg Marlow available?" Dan queried.



"Do I look like his babysitter?"



"Ooh," Dan thought, "this woman is about to yank the bitch up out of me." He calmed himself, but his nerves were already on edge. Dan smiled, but it wasn't difficult to tell that it was more forced than natural. "I don't think that attitude is necessary, sweetie. I'm just looking for..."



"I don't give a rat's ass what you think is necessary, SWEETIE," she mocked.



There it was. The last straw. "Look, you ball-busting bitch. Badge or no badge, I will climb up over this credenza and snatch your fucking weave if you don't reign in your bullshit attitude. I pay your fucking salary, alongside the rest of these taxpayers. I don't care what's going on in your life that you got stuck being the greeter at this particular Wal-Mart, but if you can't tell me where Greg Marlow is, then you had best get me someone who knows. Pronto!"



Dan hadn't noticed that the entire station had gone completely silent during his outburst. The crass policewoman stared at Dan, her hands on her hips and mouth agape in disbelief. Suddenly, she started belly laughing, her long salon nails slapping her thighs as if she was just told the world's funniest joke. If eyerolls were audible, then the entire station gave an chorus before returning to its usual bustle. Dan continued to fume for a few seconds, but he finally softened.



Once she regained control of herself, the woman sat in her chair clicking away on her computer terminal. Then she picked up her phone and typed in an extension. Dan began to believe she had decided to ignore his request when he heard a one-sided conversation.



"Is Detective Marlow in there? He has a visitor." She held the receiver away with her hand, looking directly at Dan. "What did you say your name was again?"



"Did she say 'Detective?'" he thought as he gave her his name.



She repeated what she was told, listened for a few seconds. Whoever was on the other side shouted the information before a response came. "He's in the gym. You can go down this hallway, take a left and then an immediate right. It's not normally protocol to let civilians in there, but he says you could help him."



"Sorry I got bitchy with you, sweetie. Thank you for your help."



"No problem, honey," she replied. "Besides, I have pepper spray, handcuffs, and a gun. I may not look like much, but I think I could handle you."



"I bet you could," Dan kidded. "Thanks again." He waggled his fingers at her as he followed her directions. The musty locker room smell hit his olfactory. It was somehow simultaneously a very repulsive and yet exciting odor. The smell of chlorine, body spray, and sweat played tug-of-war with his senses.



He opened the door to the gym itself, the waft of sweat was barely broken by anything else here. "Lordy, if Brian were here, he'd be putting a Scentsy burner in every corner of this room." Dan's internal monologue stopped cold as his eyes explored the room. In the center was a boxing ring. All around were free weights and various machines, including cardio bikes, treadmills, and the like.



He heard a huffing accompanied by a flat pounding sound. Scanning the sidelines, he locked eyes with a well muscled black man punching a bag as it rocked back and forth on its chains. He strode over to watch the young man, now about 25 years old, that had at one time been such a problem that Dan had to send him through a "scared straight" program just to keep him out of Juvie. For some kids, that was all it took to get them on the straight and narrow.



Dan leaned on one of the ring posts, marveling at the man that stood before him. It even panged a bit wrong to him that there was a touch of carnal intrigue, but he had grown into a very beautiful specimen of a policeman. "Look at you!" he remarked, which gave his subject's workout a slight pause. "A Detective now?"



The ebony man threw a few more punches at the bag before breaking concentration with a huge smile. "Well, a teacher I once had taught me that if I worked hard enough, I could achieve anything."



"Sounds like a wise teacher," Dan's smile glowed as his protégé approached. Sweat and suit be damned, he didn't hesitate when the young man offered a big hug. "But I think the student should take some credit too."



"Well, maybe a little." Greg's grin was dynamic. It always had been. He picked up a towel and dabbed at the sweat pouring from his body. "What can I do for the man who helped make me who I am today?"



"I had some questions regarding the suicide of a minor." Dan looked at Greg, the seriousness of reality setting in again. "I'm not sure if you can help me or not."



"Back when I was a flatfoot," Gregg assured, "I may not have. Now that I am a Detective, I just might be able to."



"I don't want to get you in trouble."



"You won't. Let me get showered and dressed and we'll talk."



Dan was directed to a private office while he waited. He noticed not too many officers got a private room to chat to people with, even detectives. He sat adjacent to the head of the desk fidgeting with things as he waited. That's when he noticed the rank to go with his former student's title: lieutenant. He could only shake his head, a swell of pride in his chest, as he reminisced about the rough path this particular man had as a child.

"I'm sure there are people out there who think less of me for what I did as the official of the Grimm versus Whitey Ford match. I can assure you that I don't entirely care. Grimmy-poo had that glitter blast coming for slapping me with that shovel."



Dan looks directly at the camera. "Grimmy-poo, it's going to take more that a garden utensil to the face to keep this bitch down. It's also going to take more than idle threats and folk dancing to intimidate me into losing enough of my cool for you to get the win. This week is no different, and it won't be any different at Mass Destruction.



"I've been around this track more than a few laps. I know the strategy. You're going to try and go for the kill at Trauma 208. You want to soften me up for an easier victory at the pay-per-view. Any other time, against any other opponent, it might have worked. If that's what you think, then you're heading for disappointment.



"The other method would be to keep your distance to prevent me from doing the same. Make me wear myself out just enough to score a pinfall and get the momentum in your favor. That also won't work. I'm no spring chicken, and neither are you. We've both been in this business long enough to know how to figure out our opponent within a single match.



"All the backwoods hoodoo won't help you, once we play for the World Title. This is, as Ace Dagger said on The Pulse, the preview, the beginning credits. This is going to be a chance for us to get in those final strategies, to try approaches, to throw new ideas against the wall and see what sticks.



"I'm glad to see that you spent some time dancing, Grimmy-poo, because this is the last dance before I bring your hopes of another World Title reign crashing down around you. I've got your number. And it's not one your feet will be able to keep a beat to. See you at Trauma, Grimmy-poo!" Dan waggles his fingers at the camera after blowing it a kiss. "Toodles."