by GDL 629 19136
The foggy midnight sky in New York this evening hovered lazily over the streets like a gray shroud. An apropos night, thought Wesley Dodds.
Looking down at the small tenement buildings, two fugitives were jumping from building to building, fleeing the oncoming police, their guns blazing leaden death.
“Hah! That’ll shake ’em, Ed!” Dave looked back at the officers stuck on the adjoining building, firing shots back at the desperadoes. “We might as well jump to the next one, too, man!”
Edward was busy staring past Dave at the ominous figure that stepped out of the fog, the glass eyes under the fedora gleaming in the stray beams of moonlight. “Uhhh, Daaave…?” A cloud of gas erupted, and Dave fell to the floor.
Ed then ran toward the next building, lungs burning from too many cigarettes and not enough exercise. Another, somewhat smaller figure appeared in front of him. Edward went for his gun, which the new stranger kicked from his hand.
The stranger fired his gun, and Edward felt himself falling, but didn’t remember landing.
Police Inspector Clem Burke was across the building, gazing at the events occurring with the two remainders of the Atomic Punks gang.
“Hol-eee sh–!” Unfortunately, his father’s occupation was not the only trait he inherited from hin, but also his dad’s penchant for uncouth language. “The Sandman? I thought he was dead! Guess Pop was wrong!”
Officer Stevens piped in, “Yeah, Burke, but who’s the other one with him?”
Burke angrily saw his job suddenly getting a lot more complicated.
Wesley watched the police take the suspects away, while his partner ran to check out a domestic situation three blocks down. He smiled in satisfaction. The season of mists had borne quite a promising harvest.