Dropping Bombs On Your Mom

The view from the window is quite good, there is always a flurry of
activity on the street below. Quinn Smith was a reclusive fellow, he
wasn’t always that way but a few years in the big city, away from the
warmth of small town life had driven him to isolate a bit. It had been
more than a week since Quinn had left the apartment. It was a short
trip, he went out for some groceries and made it the entire two blocks
to the local IGA and back. Working as a copy writer for a women’s
magazine there was never a need to commute any distance that couldn’t
be measured in metres.

Quinn amused himself at times by staring out the window at the
intersection below. This evening in particular he had spent the last
three hours glued to the street dramas. Things were starting to clear
out now and there was barely anybody left outside. He’d often pretend
that there was an emergency and he’d put himself into the hero’s
role. Charging down the stairs, his imaginary self would step in to
save the day. Most of the time the emergencies were auto wrecks or
senior citizens with heart problems. Quinn was a certified EMT and had
never had the chance to use his skills.

Today however, Quinn was feeling fiesty. He imagined a mugging. Ok, he
thinks, what’s that man doing? Every hair on his body stands up, he’s
riddled with adrenaline and ready for action. He runs down the stairs
and grabs the brute right by the head, pulling it back and slamming
his elbow into the mugger’s windpipe. Villian dispatched, he picks up
the dropped handbag, returning it to the woman with a sly, somewhat
rakish smile. A smile that says “Yeah, I can be a manly and rough but
I have a charm and seductive intelligence to me, and of course I’m
spectacular in bed.” The woman would be obliged to ask him to have
coffee— her treat —which would be nice because copy-writers
don’t make a lot of money. They’d spend the afternoon blissfully
discovering all of the things they had in common, remarking on how
lucky it was that they were together and safe.

Quinn caught movement at the northern corner of the street, breaking
the spell and interrupting some particularly forward remarks from the
young lady he had just rescued. A woman, a very pretty one, was moving
quickly toward the street light. There was a man just behind her and
in two or three quick steps he caught up. Quinn’s heartbeat quickened
and the adrenaline wash started, his arm hair was on end. With a
practiced motion the man grabbed the lady’s bag with one hand and
punched her in the face with the other. He hit her three times in
quick succession and darted off with her purse. The lady stayed there
in the foetal position until the police showed up about an hour later.