Sidekick V-Sides 2: Pockets
There's no such thing as too punk rock
Lobster Nap
Shitpancake caught a lobster and then fell asleep holding it. I snapped this before he woke up.
…Time for this week’s story…
Sidekick V-Sides 2: Pockets
I don’t know who I’m writing this for, I just need something to do. When I was looking through my pockets I found this notebook and pen so I thought I’d keep a journal. No telling how long I’ll be here, or been here, rather. I’m stuck in one of my own pockets and there’s no way out. The name’s Roscoe “Pockets” Hughes.
I guess my mate Slip was right. He’s been telling me to make more friends with powers. I told him I don’t need friends. I’m a lone wolf, a maverick. Most people aren’t punk rock enough to keep up. Even my afro is too much for some people. Didn’t scare away that pasty tosser, though. When I think about how I ended up here, my mind goes back to Slip’s advice.
“Pockets, if you don’t have people watching your back, these heroes are going to snatch you up one day.”
I thought I was pretty sly about my stealing. I guess that’s what I get for not listening to someone who actually cares. I wonder how Slip’s doing in America. Haven’t heard from him since he left, I hope he’s okay. I guess having someone care about me isn’t something I’m used to.
My old man is a professor, Mum was a musician. It’s thanks to her that I can play so many instruments. She introduced me to everything from The Beatles to Bowie. She got me into The Who just before she died. My dad wasn’t a warm bloke, so I disappeared into music. I found punk rock on my own. Sex Pistols was my introduction, then The Clash, The Ramones, Generation X, and the rest is history.
Before I found this notebook, I’d pulled all my instruments out of my pockets and had myself a jam session. Recorded a couple of nice pieces, actually. Real shame stealing instruments is what got me pinched. There’s some kind of forcefield when I try to leave, so, they’ve got me in containment somewhere. Probably in Justice Tower, an edifice to conformity. It’s the most anti-punk rock thing there is. Those so-called heroes are just a bunch of pompous wankers who carry out their version of morality for the praise of society and a payday. People think they’re brave, but I know the truth.
Most villains aren’t violent, we’re just defending ourselves from the Heroes who come after us. I knew a couple of small-time blokes who got pinched. They had a tip, but a hero cocked-up their plan. I’m pretty sure it was a sting. The fight caused a lot of damage, but these guys aren’t the type to trash a place. I’ve seen heroes cause all the damage and then blame villains. The news tells you what to believe and people just eat it up. They paint someone as a criminal and people will believe anything. It’s all propaganda.
This world is made for people to be locked up and controlled. We're meant to be free. I can’t sit in a cubicle and slave my life away so I can buy a bloody jetski or some material distraction. Is that what life’s about? Buying things? If it is, that life’s not for me.
As a matter of principle, I don’t buy things. I don’t feed into oppressive systems engineered to keep the people under an invisible thumb and easy to control. I trade, I barter, but I don’t use money. Casually grabbing food has served me well. I’ve probably got a few months of food here. I’ve been careful to keep my food and toilet pockets clearly marked. I guess I’m just prolonging the inevitable, though. I’m going to die here eventually. Until then, I’ve got my instruments to keep me comp-
*BLOOP*
*THUMP*
“Bollocks!” It’s too damn bright. I’ve got to open my eyes little by little. I forgot how dark my pockets are, even though I can see everything inside clearly. Got to get to my feet as quick as I can, though.
“Hey, buddy. You okay?” An American? I don’t recognize the voice.
“Pockets, is that you mate?”
“Get out. That you Slip?” Now that I can open my eyes, I can hardly believe that pasty bloke is standing right in front of me.
“Pockets! I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks! How’d you end up here?”
“Nicked some instruments and got pinched by the bloody Warden. Almost gave him the slip, but I guess his amulet can detect fluctuations in spacetime and he found my pocket.”
“Oh, that’s good to know.” The American in the black and purple suit is holding the damn amulet. What the bloody hell?
“Oi, Morpho, this here’s my mate, Pockets. He’s a great guy. Pockets, Morpho is a mastermind, and a great guy.”
“Nice to meet you, Pockets. What’s your power?”
I’m hungry, and this bloke wants to know about my power. So, I’ll just pull a sandwich from my pocket. He’ll get the picture.
“Oh, cool! What are the limits?”
“Things shrink to fit inside, food doesn’t go bad, space is infinite, and they can look however I want.”
“Do you sell these?”
“Of course not. I’m not a sellout, mate.”
“What if someone wants one?”
“They can trade me for it.”
“Can you connect multiple pockets to the same space?”
“I’ve never thought about it. I think I could, which means I could have got the hell out of there. Blimey!”
“Well, your power is awesome. We help people learn to use their abilities to help society. Want to join up and make pockets for us?”
“I’m a lone wolf, mate.”
“Pockets.” Now the pasty lout’s got his arm around me. “Remember what I was tellin’ you about friends?” I suppose I’d be daft to ignore his advice twice.
“I suppose I could give it a try, for a while.”
“Nice. When’s your birthday?”
“Come again?”
“The twenty-third of July.” That’s right, I told Slip my birthday once.
“Got it. Welcome to the family!”
Next Time
Gargoyleman: Broken Justice