Sosabowski leapt out of the car, clutching a number of posters in his arms. It was an important day. So focused was he, that he failed to notice the prominent and protruding curb. Gracefully, but inevitably, he smacked his head on the hard, unforgiving pavement. It was like a modern-day The Death of General Wolfe, but without quite as many people. Still laying flat on the pavement, Sosabowski assessed the situation with his sharp, hawk-like eyes. There was nobody to the left. The right was also clear. If he moved swiftly, he could avoid being curb stomped by some crazed maniacs — this godforsaken city was full of them. Quickly, he regained his composure and stood up. He brushed off the dust and accumulated dirt that was piled in thick layers all over these streets. What an appalling cackhole it was. But today, he would make a difference.

He signalled. Moving his index finger over his moustache, he lightly stroked the left parting twice while giving a gentle twirl on the right. His fingers moved up, as he placed one finger in his right nostril while another tugged on his left earlobe. They would understand. Hopefully. But for what seemed like the longest time, there was no reaction. Finally, Sosabowski noticed a feeble old man standing on the opposite corner. He must’ve only moved up there, for Sosabowski’s trained eyes had not spotted the octogenarian before. With him was a cart of some kind, somehow even more dilapidated and worn-down than the man himself. Though it was impossible — even with his penetrating eye — to make out the faded lettering on it, Sosabowski assumed that the man was selling some kind of food. Judging by the state of it and the man, business wasn’t good. Perhaps he didn’t sell protein shakes, fiber bars or any of the ghastly produce that had been popularized here in recent times. Just another local man ruined by the grandiose ‘rise’ of mafia basketball. Hopefully, he will be one of the last.

The tranquillity of the intense staredown between the magnificent general and the hapless old man was then shattered by the roar of an engine. They had finally understood the signal. A pickup truck drove into view, loaded with equipment and uniformed men. A truly spectacular sight. With pinpoint precision and a goal-oriented attitude one would expect of Bella Vista’s finest, the truck came to a halt at precisely the agreed-upon spot. Sadly, however, this was also the spot where the old man stood. He stood there, immovably, unable to move from shock. Looking away to avoid seeing the gruesome end of this poor old codger, Sosabowski closed his usually watchful eyes and prepared for the worst. The sharp sound of squealing brakes, the soft thud of a body falling to the ground. Another innocent victim of the basketball craze. But when he dared to open his eyes again, the man seemed still very much alive. The cart, of course, was utterly ruined beyond any possibility of repair or salvage. But the man, as far as he had been before, was still intact and whole of body. One of Sosabowski’s brave bodyguards had flung himself in front of the truck, tackled the man out of harm’s way, and only suffered minor scuffs himself. No bodyguards would be harmed. Not today. The unfortunate and exasperated old man, seeing the devastation and realizing his livelihood was thoroughly destroyed, seemed close to tears. Quickly, one of the bodyguards thrust forward and grabbed something out of the gleaming, glittering pile that took up about three-quarters of the truck’s loading bay. With as much dignity and pomp that they could muster in the awkwardness of the moment, he hurriedly decorated the man with a crisp, flawless medal, before sending him on his way, leaving him to walk towards the nearest bar in a state of bewilderedness and visible confusion.

Out of the truck stepped Hiro, Sosabowski’s trusted Right Hand Man. A man so valorous, so richly decorated, that they’ve had to replace the wheelbarrow carrying his excess regalia with a pickup truck. That was really the only reason the truck was there, because Sosabowski had already brought the posters with him. But let’s be honest: what’s the point in being valorous and receiving medals if you can’t show them off? Now that the gang (and, equally as important, their medals) was all here, it was time to get cracking. Sosabowski, aided by a carefully selected cadre of his most loyal and dependable bodyguards, started plastering the posters on the empty spots on the wall, in between the advertisements for "P-force ERECTOR BOOST" pills and “Old Joe’s” protein sludge. Obscuring the posters with his impressive, athletic (yet slender) frame, he turned around and addressed the masses of one to two people. 

“The reports reaching our desks are truly astounding. Some sources state that Detroit’s numbers are rivalling that of the Austrians at Karánsebes, in which hundreds of allied soldiers died from “friendly” fire. In retrospect, such tragedies might seem to contain a wry sense of humour. But there is nothing funny about the catastrophe taking place in Detroit. One individual, only known by the codename “GRIN-22” (Gruesome Individual — the '22' refers to the alleged number of bodyguards he brutally killed, although the real number may be in the thousands) in particular is known for his horrible treatment of supposedly ‘allied’ bodyguards. In addition to regular harassment and a catalog of known incidents of verbal abuse, he has murdered multiple bodyguards in cold blood.”

The strategically placed bodyguards gasped and covered their mouths. Some didn’t react, but stared into the nothingness ahead. Grim determination filled their faces.

“This cannot be allowed to continue. We depend on men like these for our own protection. Where does it end? Where will the madness stop? These lunatics, poisoned by an excess of testosterone, their brains turned into soup by their unabated use of dubious supplements, know no limits. We must end it, here and now, before it spreads beyond the quarantined city limits of Detroit. You can help.”

Sosabowski stepped away, revealing the poster to all.

•READ•

Rescue and Adopt from Detroit

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