I see him coming. Well, I hear him first. Hard to miss a sonic boom, harder to miss a guy in red tights and a cape. I’ve got no excuses and a sack full of stolen cash and before I can hang my head in defeat I’m thirty feet in the air, held aloft only by the collar of my shirt.
As he questions me, the threads start to pop and I jerk downward as gravity takes hold. He doesn’t adjust his grip. I can’t explain anything through the blubbering noises coming from my mouth. I’ve never liked heights, and I like them even less when the thing keeping me up is a roided out flying freak in tights. I whimper, and try to loosen my death grip on the sack of money, but my brain won’t communicate with the rest of my body.
Another jerk. The fabric’s going to give any second now. He doesn’t notice. I realize that we’ve raised up along with his anger at my lack of cooperation and I realize that the ground that I’m rapidly slipping towards is further away than the top of the next building.
The fabric rips.