fuck this job.com

As soon as Simon steps out onto the street, he knows something is wrong. There are no cars on Third Avenue. At five o'clock it should be bumper-to-bumper. But a lot of horns are honking somewhere, and police and fire truck sirens are wailing. He hears shouts but he can't determine where they are coming from. And there is this strange, peppery, rotten-egg smell in the air...

Simon looks down the street but doesn't see anything. Then, he senses that something big and menacing is coming up behind him. He turns his head and is frightened to see a mob of motley people, many of them wearing helmets--hockey helmets, bicycle helmets, motorcycle helmets--running full-tilt down the street right at him! Suddenly they rush past, jostling him and nearly causing him to fall. He watches them run down the street, around the corner and disappear. He turns around to look up the street and is surprised to find that a person dressed entirely in black combat gear with body armor and a huge transparent shield is now standing right in front of him. Good! A police officer! Simon feels his heart rate slow down a little. Behind the officer's visor, is a small, friendly-looking female face. It reminds him of his cousin Amanda's face and he remembers that he should send her a birthday card soon...

Then the figure raises a weapon and fires. A searing spray of liquid fire blinds him. His eyes clamp shut. His face begins to feel as if the skin is blistering. He chokes and his throat closes up. He collapses to the ground, hearing the boots of soldiers rushing past.

The pain! A bizarre thought comes to him. IT'S MUCH WORSE THAN IT LOOKS ON TELEVISION! He cannot open his eyes. Sounds of running and yelling fill his ears but he can't react. All he can do is roll around on the ground, holding his hands to his eyes, trying to wipe away the chemical. He feels someone is kneeling beside him. A hand is trying to push something into his hand. A handful of tissues. He takes a tissue and starts wiping his eyes. He can barely open them, but he can see that the person who's kneeling beside him is Patty.

He can't just roll around on the ground like a baby--not with her watching! He tries to stand up and she helps him.

"We can't stay here! They're coming back this way. Hold on to my hand," she says.

He holds on tightly and she notices that her hand starts to burn a little from the pepper spray. They head down a side street and she starts to think that the way is clear when a platoon of black-clad police appear. She pulls Simon over to a stairwell with wrought-iron railings that leads down to a little shop in the basement of an old office building. Simon manages to pry one eye open and is startled to see the stairwell yawning in front of him. He nearly falls but he manages to follow her down the concrete steps.

The door to the shop has the words "Special Things" hand painted on it. They push the old door in and a little bell rings. An old woman appears and looks concerned.

"Is he all right? Should I call a doctor?"

"No. He's just been pepper-sprayed. It will wear off in an hour or two."

Simon collapses onto a fancy little bench that hardly looks as it it will hold his weight. The shop smells of incense (and a little peppery rotten egg) and it's filled with strange clothes and books and crystals and artifacts kept within a glass case. The old woman brings a bottle of water and more tissues.

"Tear-gas," the woman says. "I was tear-gassed at Berkeley in '69." Patty doesn't respond to this, she's too busy trying to clean the pepper spray from Simon's face. The woman leaves and returns with a bottle of vodka.

"Try this. The alcohol will cut the oil." Patty takes a big swallow and pours some on the tissues. Simon cringes a bit at the smell.

"It's just vodka. Do you want some?" She takes another drink. Simon shakes his head "no."

"Your loss." She keeps on patting and wiping and cleaning, but the look of pain on Simon's face tells her that only time will remove the last of the stinging.

"Do you have a sink?"

"The woman looks a bit startled.

"Oh sure."

They take Simon into the tiny bathroom and he splashes the water on this face again and again. The woman takes a big drink from the vodka bottle and looks worried.

"Fascist pig-fuckers. They're even dressing like nazis now! What's next? I ask you. What's coming next?"

(TO BE CONTINUED)