Chapter 2

Typewriter rubbed his running nose with the stained sleeve of the coat he was wearing.

“Man, I have to stop watching those late night soap opera’s,” he muttered to himself.

Impatiently tapping his foot against the grimy tiled floor of the burger shop, Typewriter wiped his runny nose with one hand while the elbow of the other rested on the counter. In the counter next to him was a man who wore the same clothes as he did. He admired the well-tailored low brim hat and coat that the other man was wearing, certainly of much better quality than the straw hat and the raincoat he wore.

Ah, but being inconspicuous is always the best for cunning people like me, he thought to himself. He was certain that his attire would blend in perfectly with the hordes of suit-wearing businessmen and office workers around him. Someone like the man in the next counter, however, was just begging to be mugged.

He lazily noted a seemingly rushed and urgent conversation that took place between the pimple faced cashier working at the counter and the man with the nice coat.

Maybe he isn't some rich guy after all, Typewriter thought. If those two are smugglers like I think they are, they would-

His thoughts were disrupted as the bearded man at the counter in front of him grunted.

“E’res yer order,” he said, in less than perfect English.

“Erm, yeah, thanks,” was all Typewriter said, as he took the plastic bag filled with three beef burgers from the cashier.

For several moments after he had payed the man the money due, Typewriter stood and stared at the cashiers beard. There was something that was so magnificent, so awesome, so breath taking, that all Typewriter managed to do when the middle aged woman behind him gave him a nudge was give her an absent minded reply.

“All hail the beard. . .,” he said, as he walked away.

As soon as his eyes left the busy depths, Typewriter’s mind returned to the man with the nice coat, who was now leaving the shop. His phone beeped, interrupting his thoughts which had derailed themselves from smugglers to beards once again.

“Writer. Type, Writer,” he answered to the man on the other end of the line.

At the same time, in the dark confines of the vault of a certain bank, a man who called himself Houdini shouted into his phone, at Typewriter.

“Where are you you fool?!” he shouted, knowing that his voice was unheard by those outside. “The Accountant and I have been waiting for,” he paused to check his watch, “My watch isn’t working, but I’m willing to be that it’s been hours since you left to buy the burgers!”

“Oh, well you see, there was this-” came Typewriters interrupted reply, slightly filled with static due to the poor signal.

“Never mind, I don’t care about what was keeping you. Just come over here now!” said Houdini, his voice less urgent and his breathing less ragged from the rage he had felt just moments ago.

“Well, can’t you like, pull off one of those fancy magic tricks you’re so good at?” Typewriter dully asked.

Seething, Houdini slid the phone under a handkerchief and smashed it. Thanks to his ability to pull of any magic trick, Houdini would be able to restore it later. Perhaps he could even play around with Typewriter’s simple mind later, when his plans were carried out.

For now, though, he would wait. Patiently, he would wait for the egotistical members of Heroes Incorporated to arrive at the bank expecting to save the day. Little did they know, the worlds greatest magician and villain awaited.

The End

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