Krylon

Krylon clinged to the concrete with a vengeance. A silent message hanging there for anyone who cared to take the time to stop and decode its secrets. It doesn’t take a slide-ring or a code-breaker or a massive supercomputer that takes up someone’s house. All it takes is the simple recognition and its task is complete. 1

Beautiful in the simplicity of how it’s created, but constantly downtrodden as the scum of society like the vomit from the belly of the beast spewed upon the walls. Art to those who practice it, vandalism to those who don’t understand it; Deborah’s paint roller covered up the last of the graffiti. 2

What had once been a mix of colors hardly found in the plain town ran on old money was now simply an eyesore of a blotch. A sad fate dished out across the city.3

“Sometimes you just have to wonder what these goddamn punks think they’re trying to prove. I wish someone would string ‘em up when they get caught,” Ross lamented. A man edging out of his prime, Ross co-founded and oversaw the graffiti-removal task force of the sleepy town of the elderly. A staunch graduate of the School of No Nonsense, he had a penchant for speaking out against the weird, mysterious and overall subversive.4

“And they call this scribbling art in the ghetto’s of Los Angeles, and they’ve got to spill over their brim and come into our perfectly beautiful, peaceful, quiet little town. These dicks have zero standards. Gangbangers, all of them!”5

“Can’t blame ‘em,” she chimed in, “All the good places to put graffiti up in the downtown area are probably taken up or constantly being hit over.”6

Nonsense! Ross thought to himself, Gosh, you’d think for someone in college she’d be a lot smarter than most of her generation. Trying to defend these lowlifes, goddamn degenerates.7

“Well,” he sighed, “If there was a way we could tell them to take it elsewhere.”8

It had been two years since an entity know as “The Bombmaker” had began to infiltrate the town’s sense of security. It started out as a simple gasmask looking symbol being placed on random buildings and walls. 9

Within months it had elevated into a systematic krylon-based operation on city infrastructure monuments ranging from complex etching into the glass at city hall to a faux gasmask draped over the face of the city’s statue of it founder, topped off with a traffic cone for a hat. 10

The city began to use sodium hydrogen carbonate, basic baking-soda, to remove the tarnish. They stopped very abruptly when the normal paint under the graffiti began peeling back after a few weeks exposure to the elements. If it wasn’t enough, The Bombmaker began to use a custom spray paint that caused the baking soda to bond with it, creating even more of a mess.11

After two years, not a single photo, video clip or other shreds of evidence had popped up. Eyewitnesses were few and far between, and none of them could identify a face with most saying it was a face “beyond human”. Hardly reliable information.12

“Someone’s gotta’ catch this guy, you know?”13

“Yeah,” she mumbled, “I know.”14

Tired already? He thought, Kids, always pooping out before us old farts.15

“Well,” he walked back to admire a job well done, “That’s the last of it. Just a quick sealer coat and we’ll be out of here and you can be on your way to the banquet.”16

“Seesh, all I’ve done is clean-up graffiti. I don’t think that requires me to automatically receive recognition from the mayor of the town.”17

“Well, you’ve been doing it for so long and have been so faithful about it. Go ahead and head on over. I’m going to finish my work late tonight, maybe I’ll even stay out and catch his guy.”18

“In your dreams,” she joked.19

“Yeah, in my dreams.”20

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21

“With a little luck, tonight might be the big night.”22

“Yes” it said, donning the gas mask. It turned to look in the mirror as review itself. The gasmask was new. It had coaxed a friend to obtain one through his services, and the possession of the M50 was perfect. 23

Earlier gasmasks had been bulky and their narrow field of vision ensured that it would be on constant lookout, making the task of stenciling painfully long. The M50 also allowed the usage of a night-vision system that it occasionally used when in areas of extreme darkness. It’s one thing to stencil in the dark, it’s another to stencil in the nightvision. 24

Another fun option with the M50 was its improved scrubbers. They were designed to make any air as pure as can be, which was great as the custom spray paint was harsh on the lungs. Rubber gloves, black ones, assured the stealth was attained and kept in the darkness. A black hoodie and regular fitting jeans capped off with black Vans. It was ready to go to war with the usual suspects of authority.25

It was beyond human.26

“Alright, time to drive.”27

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28

Cans in the trunk, the sports sedan had a prestige of flair to it, and it was going to be used as a scouting/getaway vehicle for something that had shifted beyond simple vandalism. At slightly after 1am, it was all out war through illegal art. With the car started, the scouted locations of the previous night’s run.29

It placed earphones it the appropriate sides and let the iPod play. Einstein on the Beach was a difficult opera to digest, but it did and it used it for artistic inspiration. Knee Play 3 was in full force tonight, with it’s chorus of “1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 1 2 3 4” leading into the most beautiful melodies ever devised my mankind. It thought of the music of Philip Glass as some kind of a muse.30

Tonight’s “art piece” would consist of a stencil of Chicago mayor Richard M. Daley handing out teddy bears with bombs strapped to their backs. A complex, time-consuming stencil for anyone…but not the Bombmaker.31

“Here,” it motioned. With the car pulling over and seat belt off, it opened the door and rose out of its seat. The heavy, sedated breathing of its wearer echoed through the alley behind City Hall. The earbuds had been replaced by a wireless earpiece tucked snuggly under the mask. The friend also placed his on with a small wire leading to a tiny microphone.32

“Alright, signal overview. If I call out “potato” then you need to get your ass out. Is your nightvision good? Breathing feel proper?”33

“Everything feels nominal. Primed and ready to paint.”34

“Alright,” he said, donning plastic gloves to pick up he cans with, “go get ‘em.”35

It placed cans in every pocket of the jeans, stencils, it checked the gloves as it grabbed its stencils and jiggled the mask. Under that mask, the mind ran wild. The perceptions of reality no longer were permitted under the mask. Thought processes were sharper, senses were heightened and borderline paranoia ran the roost.36

The mental pictures of all the possible stencils projected themselves on the brick wall of the alleyway. Lights were avoided at al costs as it skirted around the halogen streetlights. Darkness was its friend as it moved off to the noble cause. The full moon’s light was enough to prevent the usage of the nightvision system it could flip down from the top of its head.37

The friend watched as the Bombmaker set down the stencils. In an instant the cold calm cracked into a quiet panic.38

“POTATO! POTATO!” he cried into the microphone as loud as he could.39

Shit it thought. Ocular photosensitive enhancing CCD’s down and head on a swivel, the Bombmaker looked in every direction but the one that counted.40

The loud clank of a flashlight meeting shoulder as it performed a Newtonian demonstration of when mass meets acceleration. It went down, hard, onto its knees. Ross stood over the monstrosity of an animal.41

“Stand up you goddamn coward,” he pressed, “If you’ve even got the guts to do it, get up off of your knees and show me that you’re not just some ghetto scribbler of a transplant. You know, I smother your disgraceful excuse for low brow art every day.”42

With a sweep of its legs, Ross had fallen onto his back. Those superhuman reflexes kicked in and the next thing he felt was the bottom of a can covering his mouth. He looked up at the face of the Bombmaker and noted that, yes indeed, it was beyond human. Disturbingly so.43

“For the next few minutes, you will be a captive of mine so you can listen. If there is one thing pretentious soccer-fathers like yourself should understand is that dialogue between you and your enemy is the best there is. You right now are in need of a cold dose of shut the fuck up, okay? Nod your head if you’re willing to comply with my pleas to be heard.”44

Ross, seeing no other alternatives other than possibly finding out what kind of acid was in those cans did what only he could do.45

“Good. Now you listen to me you miserable disgracer of my art. I am sick and tired of seeing you just crack out the paint-roller and show my wonderful messages their paint-covered graves. If you had any ounce of sense left in you, maybe you’d realize there’s coded messages in what I do. I’m not just some mindless slob out here making my territory. Those tag boys who write their names illegibly are already doing that, plus, why not just crack open my pants and urinate like the animal you propose me to be? To use one of your favorite words: “Goddamn”, maybe I should mark you while I’m at it.46

“This can contains some pretty high octane goodies in it, and I’m sure you’re not exactly wanting to be the first person to ever inhale its rank self. Why the hell do you think I wear this on my face, for fun? Now what do you think of me now that you’ve laid eyes upon this city’s very own Nessie, do you feel relieved or do you need a hug to assure you that everything is going to be alright?”47

“Nevermind your answer. Fools make up reasons, wise men say nothing. You know where I got that? A musical, “South Pacific” motherfucker. Don’t ever say I don’t have a taste for art. I’ve got a ticket subscription to this town’s opera house,” it paused, “Say, do me a favor. Next time you see the mayor, suggest they do “Einstein on the Beach” for me, will yah?”48

It took a certain pleasure from the fear in Ross’s eyes, but then again, it realized it probably had the same look in it’s eyes…if only they could be seen, even in a mirror.49

“Alright,” it said, looking down as it stood, removing the can from his mouth, “If I ever catch you again, I’m going to make you pay me $20 simply because you wet your pants during this conversation. I hope this conversation hasn’t made a damn sense to yah, Understood?”50

“Ye….Ye….Yes sir,” Ross stumbled to his feet.51

“No,” it corrected, “Yes it! Now get outta’ here!”52

If a somewhat overweight man could ever win the gold for any sprinting event, Ross would’ve surely won it heading back to his car.53

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54

Overcast skies were something to be thankful for during the Summer time. Deborah appreciated them; breaks from the harsh Sun were always welcomed. Ross that morning had a particularly stiff back as he parked the truck at the first location of the day. That fall hurt, but the conversation had rattled him. On the side of a building in freehand style, someone had written “RUN FATTY! RUN!” and in small print from a permanent marker, “Bedwetter, this one’s for you.”55

“Sonuvabitch,” he muttered with a slight smile, his understanding starting to grow.56

As Deborah unloaded the paint, she winced. The flashlight from hours before had left a deep bruise in her shoulder.57