1. Normal gets held up
The world invariably worked the same way - one guy did all the work, another got all the money. Being held up was no different. It was tiring work, for the guy being held up. Where were the Cheese when you really needed them? Always arrive after the criminal had made off with the loot. Safe for them, but what about me, thought Normal. Normal shifted from foot to foot on the cracked macadam of the old highway. The crevices on the road mirrored the larger fissures in the landscape surrounding them the devastation caused by bygone wars.
"You should say, 'Stand and deliver!'," he said, staring at the famous Dick Turpentine.
Dick had not lived up to Normal's expectations of a glamorous highwayman. He was a scruffy looking individual dressed in dusty clothes. The dust hid any distinguishing elements of style or colour in the clothes. The dirty brown bandana covering the lower part of his face muffled his voice as he spoke.
"Huh?" said Dick.
"When you hold people up, like you're doing with me, instead of saying 'Give me your credits!', you should say 'Stand and deliver!' or 'Your credits or your life!' That's much more highwayman-like," Normal explained patiently, schoolmarminess dripping from his every pore, as he switched from foot to foot again.
"You're telling me how to be a highwayman?" Beneath the scraggly hair, Dick's eyebrows reached for the sky.
"Well, somebody's gotta. You're not doing such a good job of it. All those stories about how dashing you are ..." Normal's voice trailed off as Dick scowled at him.
"Oh, I dash alright. When the Cheese appears, I dash away like the dashingest of dashers," said Dick in an injured tone, cut to the quick at the impugning of his abilities.
Normal waved his hand dismissively, then tensed as Dick brought the gun up sharply. "That's not exactly what I meant."
While somewhat scared, he'd also been rather exhilarated to be held up by the great Dick Turpentine on this lonely stretch of highway. It had been rather disappointing to learn that the outlaw lacked a dash of the dashing.
Normal considered his options and tried again, "They also say that you steal from the rich and give to the poor. You do give to the poor, don't you?"
"Umm ... yeah." Dick looked around like a hunted rabbit, struggling to think[1] of a name, any name, that would qualify. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. There's poor Mrs. Robinson. I give her some credits every once in a while. I stay at her place, but still, she's poor and I give her money. That counts, right?" Dick paused, he'd found himself at the bottom of his mental list much sooner than he'd expected.
There was silence for a moment. Normal wondered how you made small talk with the person robbing you. Did you compliment him on his technique? Strike that, he told himself wryly. He'd already nuked that bridge.
He was saved from further rumination by Dick, who beamed a beatific smile and continued, "Then there's Suzy over at the Young Men's Recreational Centre[2] ... Poor thing, sometimes she stays out in the cold all night waiting for somebody to come along. That's just not right." Sympathy for poor Suzy's plight and outrage at the cruelty of society fought a full-blown campaign across the landscape of Dick's face.
"You mean she's a woman of the night?" Normal could feel the flush spreading over his face like an army of red ants across a sandwich. He'd always been a country boy, even though he'd lived his whole life in the city.
"Nah, she does business by day as well," replied Dick, obviously relishing Normal's discomfort. Normal could almost see Dick, smiling evilly like a maniacal imp, within the cramped confines of the cell that was Dick's mind. "It's just that folks are a tad skittish about approaching her during the day. Guess you could say those who do business with her are the real folk of the night."
Each time Dick said "business", Normal felt his face turn a deeper shade of crimson. Normal wondered if the highwayman was going to keep saying "business" just to see how many different shades of red he could get out of Normal. Perhaps Dick took pity on him. Instead of pressing his attack, Dick switched gears.
"Say, what's your name?" he asked.
"Normal, Normal Kint." Normal started to put his hand out, ready to shake hands. Dick tensed, his finger tightening on the firing stud. Normal realized his mistake and withdrew his hand in double-quick time. He shuffled his feet and tried to look everywhere but at the blaster while Dick watched him intently.
[1] Thinking had never been Dick's strong suit.
[2] They'd wanted to call it the Young Men's Center of Activities, but somebody had pointed out that young men generally had only one center of activity and that it was the sort of thing one just didn't discuss in polite circles - or even polite squares[3].
[3]In fact, polite squares got bent out of shape far sooner than polite circles.
