Running with the Devil

If anyone had told Simon the Swingwraith that his last score would be a truckload of toilet paper, he'd have thought them mad.

But here he sat, barreling through the streets of Greenville with his new partner at the elderly truck's wheel, cops in lukewarm pursuit. Well, one cop in pursuit. Greenville's sheriff was following at a distance; clearly she didn't think the old truck would hold together for long. She knew only that the truck itself had been reported stolen. She knew nothing of its suddenly-priceless cargo or its driver, who'd recruited Simon.

He grinned at Simon now with a mouthful of shark teeth. "You don't really get this, do you?"

"No," replied Simon with a shake of his head. "I mean, this is all your fault. The virus, the panic buying, all the confusion about symptoms, how it spreads...that's your work, right?"

"The misinformation? Oh, hell, no...if you'll excuse the expression." An even bigger shark grin accompanied this sally. "That's you guys. Confusing you used to be the nature of my game until I realized how much better you were at it. My work does itself these days...I just take on jobs like this for fun." He whipped the truck around a funeral procession and the sheriff, constrained by small-town courtesy, fell behind. The hearse driver took one look at his fiery grin and quickly looked away.

Simon, who earned his nickname by swinging through the shattered skylights of banks, was still puzzled. "Yeah, but...toilet paper?"

His partner took both hands off the wheel to explain. "Do you know how many social media feeds will have a picture of a burning truckload of toilet paper by this time tomorrow?"

Simon, who would not, had just enough time to see the approaching power pole and mutter, "Hey..."

298 words