Phil sighed deeply and continued his fall. He began ruminating on, and, for once, truly appreciating, the beauty of everything he could see from his peculiar vantage point: the neon-lit sky, the latticework rushing past him, the ever-approaching sidewalk.
Really, the sidewalk was quite lovely. Laid out in perfect lines, each square clean and unbroken. A kind of whitish-grey, with a stucco-like facing. A stucco-like facing Phil’s face was rapidly nearing.
“Oh, sweet fucking fucking fucking fuck.”
Phil tried to turn his body in mid-air, only getting as far as changing his jackknife into a belly-flop. He continued the metaphor by hooking his arms and attempting to swim himself out of danger.
It didn’t help.
“I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die”
That didn’t really help either.
“Sweet merciful crap, I wish I believed in a god. Or that there were gods to believe in to begin with. Other than the one who just killed me, I mean. If only… Oh shit, sidewalk!”
Phil curled up as best he could and shielded his face from the oncoming ground.
Sixty-Nine: Deus ex Girlfriend
Phil waited for the impact. His body was tensed, his eyes were closed. Mentally, he had devolved from pleading for mercy into an endless string of expletives. The only thing close to a thought he had left was the vague hope that he didn’t soil himself prior to becoming one with the pavement.
Phil continued to wait. His body was still tensed, although his feet were starting to feel pretty comfortable. Likewise, his brain eased up for the briefest of moments, squeezing out, “These last few seconds certainly are taking a good long while to pass,” in between the frenzied cussing.
Phil waited a little while longer. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes and peered through the fingers still clenched around his face. He was expecting to see Heaven, or Hell, or maybe Quetzalcoatl holding his ankle and laughing, or about eight hundred equally as unlikely scenarios.
“What… the fuck?” said Phil.
Nowhere on that list was there a squirrel.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said the squirrel. “My name is Timmy.”
Yet that’s what Phil was looking at. A squirrel. An atypical, extraordinary, preternaturally intelligent, telekinetic, cape-wearing squirrel.
“You can… talk?”
“Do you see my lips moving?”
“Well, no.”
“Right. Squirrels don’t have vocal chords. I’m communicating with you the same way I’m holding you three inches from the ground: with my brain. Quit being such a fucking idiot.”
There was a time when Timmy was just like any other squirrel. But there was this other time where he got experimented on and gained telekinetic powers. And then there was this third time where Timmy almost got hit by a car but, at the last second, pulled a rock from the side of the road and into harm’s way, thus saving his ass and, surely, causing the inhabitants of the car, and anyone else somehow privy to the goings-on of said car, to believe that he had been run over. But he hadn’t.
Instead, Timmy lived, and decided to use his newfound ass-saving abilities for the good of the world. He started small, avenging mistreated animals and the like, before quite literally moving his way up the food-chain, always searching for the bigger picture, the best way to help the most creatures.
Which is why when an overweight philosopher fell past Timmy as he climbed up a faux French monument in Las Vegas en route to killing Quetzalcoatl, Timmy didn’t even blink.
Saving lives was just what Timmy did.
Seventy: Fun with Adjectives
“Thanks,” said Phil, repositioning himself so that his feet were on the ground and his body was once more aligned with the vertical plane.
“Don’t mention it,” replied Timmy telepathically. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got bigger fish to psychokinetically eviscerate.”
“He’s actually a snake. With wings.”
“Yeah, I know, I saw the reports on TV. It was just a play on words.”
“Oh, right,” said Phil, “right. Sorry, it’s been a… hectic… disorientating couple of days.”
“Been there, brother.”
A helicopter noisily passed over the duo. They looked up, neither one entirely sure of what to expect. What they saw was Quetzalcoatl also noticing the helicopter and fleeing from the Eiffel Tower like a startled pigeon.
“Damn it,” said Timmy, watching his prey escape. “What the shit is that?” he asked, returning his attention to the flying machine.
“A helicopter,” answered Phil.
“You have no idea how much I’m regretting saving your life.”
The helicopter landed in the middle of the street, less than twenty yards from Phil and Timmy. A number of people in suits and a number of people not in suits poured from the vehicle’s door.
“It’s a philosopher!” shouted one of the ones in a suit, pointing at Phil. “Kill him!”
“Seriously,” said Timmy. “No fucking idea.”
“Whoa, hold on,” shouted Phil, stepping forward and putting up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m… on your side.”
“Why should we believe you?” said the suit with a bag on her head, approaching the duo.
“Because Quetzalcoatl… no longer cares for my company. He threw me… off the top of an Eiffel Tower.”
“An Eiffel Tower?” asked a taller, bagless her.
The even taller, well-built man with the sideburns standing next to her pointed up.
“Oh, right,” replied the girl.
“How are you alive then?” asked the other, shorter, bagless female.
“This squirrel…” said Phil, motioning to Timmy, “halted my descent… with his mind.”
“Somehow,” said the girl, lowering her head and rubbing her temples, “that’s not the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Timmy stood up on his hind legs and waved. His tiny cape billowed heroically.
“Good enough for me,” said the tall, blonde man by the girl’s side, shrugging.
Seventy-One: If the Helicopter’s A-Rockin’…
Judy and the other, suited scientists hung in the middle of the air, clutching their own throats and gasping out vague apologies.
“And that,” said Chester A. Arthur XVII, “is good enough for me. I believe them.”
“OK, Timmy,” said Phil. “You can… let them down now.”
“Do I have to?” replied the squirrel, speaking telepathically to everyone. “They are scientists, after all.”
“Yes,” said Catrina, “but they’re not your scientists. This is a whole other group of incompetent scientists. While they are clearly, and very, stupid, they’re not exactly evil. They don’t deserve to be choked to death.”
“Are you sure?” asked Thor.
“How is that helpful?”
“I’m just saying, they did nearly kill us.”
“Thor.”
“That thing? With the giant werewolf? Remember?”
Catrina shot Thor a look that would have killed a lesser man. Seriously. Dude would’ve burst into flames right there.
“OK, fine,” replied Thor, rolling his eyes.
Thor knelt before Timmy and put both of his hands on the squirrel’s tiny shoulders. He took a deep breath and looked Timmy squarely in his rodent eyes.
“Timmy,” he said, “please do not kill these scientists. We apparently need them for some reason, maybe. More importantly, though, they are not very good at being scientists. They will undoubtedly find some way to kill themselves in a hilarious fashion shortly.”
Timmy returned Thor’s gaze, hesitation apparent in his eyes.