Miguelito, Revised

Miguelito
4:17 p.m.

Miguel Illescas walked down the crowded sidewalk that Thursday afternoon, nodding his head and waving his hands in acknowledgement of the various gifts that storekeepers, bartenders, and random passersby threw into his path.

He stooped down and picked up a rose from a bunch that littered the sidewalk in front of him without interrupting his gait, and confidently blew a kiss at a woman in a form-fitting purple dress who jumped up and down and shouted his name when she saw him. Gummi bears, candy bars, fresh fruit, flower petals, and ornate wreaths were all tossed by the grateful residents of the neighborhood as they crowded together to catch a glimpse of their savior and hero as he passed by.

It was, to be sure, almost more than an ordinary eight-year-old could handle.

Miguelito, however, was no ordinary eight-year-old, as his legions of adoring fans, followers, and hangers-on would gladly testify.

"Gracias, Miguelito," an old man said, holding out his hand, an abashed smile dominating his face. "Gracias por todo."

Miguelito took the man's weathered, wrinkled hand in his, looked deeply into the old man's dark eyes, and nodded. "We all do what we can," he said in typically humble fashion. Though his exploits were legendary, Miguelito had never felt comfortable with the praise and appreciation he received, and downplayed his contributions to the community's well-being every chance he could.

"Miguelito!" screamed a thirty-year-old woman as she dropped her husband's hand and ran over to embrace the child. "Miguelito, your autograph, please," she pleaded, but the boy simply shook his head and smiled.

"No autographs," he said simply, and the dejected woman returned to her husband, who did his best to console her.

As he walked farther on, towards the outskirts of his home neighborhood, the lines of his earnest and affectionate devotees began to thin out, until he found himself walking on deserted sidewalks.

Recognizing the sudden need for attentiveness and caution, Miguelito laced his thumbs through the shoulder straps of his tattered and worn Batman backpack and stole a quick glance over his right shoulder, scanning the empty streets for signs of troublemakers, recreants, or other delinquents.

Not seeing anything, Miguelito inhaled deeply, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his right hand, and continued on his way.

4:32 p.m.

Miguel ducked under the welcoming shade in front of local bodega, took off his backpack for a moment, and glanced down at his digital wristwatch. Satisfied at his progress, he strode back out into the sun, ditching the comfortable cover of the awning's shade. He still had a long way to go and a shrinking amount of time in which to get there.

As he walked, he noticed an older man sitting on a bench on a bus stop, having an animated conversation with nobody. He stopped a few feet from the man and watched as the one-sided discussion developed, the man becoming more agitated as he argued with somebody or something that Miguel couldn't see.

"Who are you talking to?" Miguel asked.

The man was startled by the boy's interruption, and jumped out of his seat. He turned around slowly and eyed Miguel with squinting eyes.

"Who I'm talkin'' to?" he asked, looking around. He shrugged. "He was jus' heah a minute ago. Mus've left. Ah, well, I in't like 'em anyway."

Miguel smiled, nodded, and continued to stare at the old man as though struggling to identify him.

"Hey, young man," the man said in hushed tones, motioning for Miguel to move closer. "I got sumpin' fo' you, sumpin' you ain't gon' wanna pass up."

Miguel pressed his eyebrows down in curiosity. "What is it?"

"Man, what I got's a million dolla idea, but I give it to ye fo' fi'e dolla."

"I don't have five dollars," Miguel explained, fishing around in his pockets.

"How much you got?" the old man asked, peering suspiciously at the boy.

Miguel shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe fifty cents."

"Fiddy cent?" the man asked, raising his voice in dismayed shock. "Fiddy cent? What kind o' fool gonna sell you a million dolla idea fo' fiddy cent? Man, I ain't gon' let go o' dis idea fo' nuttin' less dan one dolla."

Miguel shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I don't have a dollar." He brought out a handful of change from his pocket and started to count it. "I have... sixty-two cents. Is that enough?"

"Man, hand dat munny ovah," the man said with a disgusted look on his face. "Carefu' I don' run down to da police station and file a report on account o' how you rob me heah."

Miguel handed over his change and looked eagerly at the man. "So what's the million dollar idea?" he asked.

"Man, looka heah. You evah hear o' sumpin' called col' fusion?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at the import of his own words.

Miguel shook his head. "No. Is it some kind of new refrigerator? We need a new refrigerator at home."

The man nodded sagely. "Man, e'ryone need a new fridge now wit' dis damn heat. It's hotta den a camel ass out heah, I tell ya'. Heah," he said, handing over a tattered sheet of paper upon which he had made nearly-illegible scribbles. "You take care o' dat right theah, you hear me, boy? Dat right deah, in yo' hand, gonna change da worl' one o' dese days, an' you just stole it from me fo' sixty-two cent."

The man shook his head gruffly and began to walk away, muttering curses about the money he just forfeited in the transaction. Miguel glanced down at the paper, staring and squinting and trying to make sense of the letters, numbers, and strange symbols on the paper before folding it neatly up and putting it away in his pocket.

"Hey, Peddler," Miguelito called out, his voice imperious and commanding. "Stop right there. Not another step."

The old man stopped mid-stride, his shoulders high enough to cover his ears as he reflexively flinched at the use of his nom de guerre. He turned around slowly and faced the unassuming young man, his once cloudy eyes now bright and searching as he looked Miguelito up and down, curious about the unforeseen change in the child's manner and demeanor.

"Who you be?" the old man asked, squinting at Miguel.

Miguel smiled confidently. "I cannot express to you the depth of my heartbreak and disappointment, Peddler, at the fact that you don't recognize me," Miguel answered, advancing slowly towards the old man. "On these streets I am known by many names, but I prefer the one that strikes terror in the hearts of evildoers like yourself, Peddler. You know me as -"

"-Miguelito," he finished, his shoulders slumping and his gaze falling to the cracked grey concrete of the sidewalk beneath his feet.

"The very same," Miguel replied, nodding and continuing his methodical advance. "I am glad that we have met at long last, Peddler. I have heard of your misdeeds from afar, though, truth be told, I have always considered you to be more of a second-rate criminal and thus have you managed to avoid the burning sting of justice at my hands." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded-up sheet of paper he had just procured. He opened it slowly, unfolding it one section at a time until it had returned to its normal size. "Do you really expect me to believe that you have discovered the secret of cold fusion, Peddler? I scoff at the idea. Tell me, Peddler, where did you earn your advanced degree in chemistry?" Miguel crumpled the paper up and hurled it at the Peddler, throwing it with such force that it slammed into the old man's head and knocked him to the ground. He stood over the old man, who writhed on the ground in pain, clutching his bleeding forehead as he tried futilely to ease his headache. "Admit it, Peddler: this was just another ruse by which you planned to steal the hard-earned money of unsuspecting passers-by, isn't it? Isn't it?"

"Yes, Miguelito," the old man cried, sobbing and choking as blood began to drip down his sweaty forehead. "Yes, it's true. I never earned an advanced degree in chemistry. All I have is a bachelor's from Penn," he admitted howling in shame.

Miguelito shook his head in disgust. "That's barely even a real Ivy League school," he said, his hands resting on his hips. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Peddler. If I see you on these streets again, I promise that your days of selling off-brand merchandise and phony scientific breakthroughs to gullible civilians will be over. Now get up and pedal yourself out of my town, Peddler."

The old man nodded and continued crying as Miguelito walked away. He looked at his watch again - it was time to move on.

4:43 p.m.

As he continued on his way, Miguel again checked behind him, scanning the sidewalk carefully to make sure he wasn't being followed. While he suspected that he was being surveilled, there was nothing that he could do about it at the moment. He had to keep moving if he was going to make it in time.

Not seeing anything suspicious, the boy moved forward, again adjusting the straps on his Batman backpack so that it sat better on his shoulders. His hair was a damp mess from the humidity, and drops of dirty sweat continually dripped down into his eyes and onto his mouth, the salt blurring his vision and stinging a cut on his lower lip.

Unbidden, the thought of an orange popsicle entered into his mind, causing his tongue to swell and salivate with longing. Orange popsicles, in his opinion, were not only the best flavor of popsicle available - they were, in point of fact, the only popsicle worth eating.

Focus, he reprimanded himself, angry for the temporary lapse in concentration. He couldn’t afford the luxury of indulging a fantastical mirage of the sweet, life-saving goodness of an orange popsicle. This was serious business he was involved in, and giving in to childish habits could cost him his life if he wasn’t careful.

4:57 p.m.

Miguel ducked into a shaded alleyway and sought refuge behind a giant green dumpster that stood outside of the building nearest the street. He removed his backpack and went through its contents, making sure that he had everything that he might possibly need. Satisfied that he was prepared for the confrontation, he slid his arms back into the straps, wiped his sweaty palms on his red shorts, and returned to the sidewalk.

He stole into the doorway of a white brick building, closing the door silently behind him and pausing, listening to the thumping of his heart while he waited to ensure that nobody was following him.

Confident that he was alone, he locked the door behind him and entered the empty office. He tiptoed toward the receptionist’s desk, careful not to make any noise that might announce his presence.
There, he thought, inhaling deeply with anticipation. The target was present, staring intently at an open manila file folder.

5:02 p.m.
"Hola, Doctór," Miguel said, flashing a cocky smile at the older man.

The man turned around and stared at the diminutive child standing in the waiting room. He craned his neck to get a better view of the visitor, as everything below the boy's neck hidden behind the receptionist's counter. The man stared and stared, trying desperately to place the face that he saw before him, unable to make the connection.

Finally, after twenty seconds, recognition flashed in the man's mind, and he dropped the file folder from his hands and began backing away.

"No," he whispered, his face a mask of mortal terror. "Miguelito? No. No puede ser. It cannot be. You, you, you were supposed to have been taken care of."

"Ah, yes," Miguel said, vaulting himself over the counter and into el Doctor's office. "Your dastardly partner, el Dentista. It seems he wanted a crown for himself, but instead I gave him a good drilling. We won't be hearing from him again, Doctór: I gave him a fatal case of hurt fillings.

"But enough about the dear, departed Dentista. Let's talk about you, Doctór. There’s an old saying, how does it go? Ah, yes: an apple a day keeps the doctor away. I wonder if that is true," he said, removing a shiny red apple from his backpack.

"No," el Doctór whispered, trembling as he tried to open the locked window in his office, to no avail.

"There is no escape, Doctór," Miguel said, advancing slowly, tossing the apple back and forth between his two hands.

"No, por favor, Miguelito. Por favor. You will see - I will change my ways. I will devote my life to helping the sick and the weak, those who are not able to care for themselves. Yes, yes, yes. I will be a good Doctór, Miguelito."

"A good doctor? It’s a little late for that, you villain."

"No, Miguelito," the Doctor said, falling to his knees and clasping his hands tightly in front of his face. "Please, spare me the ravages of the Big Apple, Miguelito. Por favor, Miguelito, have pity on an old man."

“You know about the Big Apple?”

El Doctór nodded. “Yes. Yes,” he sobbed. “Everyone knows about the Big Apple.”

“Tell me about it,” Miguel said as he continued tossing it back and forth in front of the trembling Doctór. “Tell me about this Big Apple of which you speak.”

The old man sniffled and cleared his throat. “It’s… it’s… it’s a deadly weapon, Miguelito. A chemical bomb disguised as an ordinary apple. They say that you've spent years perfecting it, that it can kill in a matter of seconds and leave no trace.”

Miguel nodded. “That’s right. The Big Apple destroys everything that it comes into contact with. Nothing survives it. But enough about my marvelous weapons. I want you to confess, Doctór. I want you to acknowledge what you've done. I already got the whole story out of the Dentista before I strung him up by his floss, so don't think about lying to me."

El Doctór began sobbing hysterically, screaming and crying and rocking back and forth. "Okay, Miguelito. Okay. El Dentista and I made an unholy alliance. It's true. We worked together. Our plan was to poison the town's water supply by flooding it with... with... with sugar."

"Not just sugar, Doctór."

"No, no," he pled. "Don't make me say it."

"I want to hear the words from your mouth, you miscreant."

"Okay, Miguelito. Okay. Sugar and... and... and high fructose corn syrup." El Doctór wailed and sobbed as Miguel stood in front of him, shaking his head in judgmental disbelief.

"You were willing to go to any length just to ensure that your business was booming. You were even willing to poison innocent people just to make a few bucks. And to think that you took an oath to do no harm, Doctór. I gotta tell you, Doc: your prognosis is pretty bad."

"No," he whispered, staring at Miguel. "No. I want to live. I want to live. I'll never harm another patient again."

"You got that right, Doctór. But from what I can see, you have less than two minutes to live. Don't worry, though: I'm a professional."

Without another word, Miguel pulled back his arm, the deadly apple palmed tightly in his hand, and hurled it at el Doctór’s tear-stained face with all the force that his little arm could muster. El Doctór opened his mouth wide to scream, but before so much as a squeak escaped, the Big Apple smashed against his nose, spreading its vile, rabid flesh all over his face. Instantly el Doctór’s skin began to bubble and ooze, the acidic chemicals of the apple turning his face to a dripping mush.

5:14 p.m.

“Four out of five doctors know better than to mess with Miguelito,” the boy said as he turned to walk away. “I wonder what Mom made for dinner.”