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[AudioBoxer]

Making his way through streets full of staring people, Foxbow finally reached the point Where He'd Deduced Ski Mask To Be Hiding. It was pretty easy, considering the swarms of police surrounding the warehouse and the shouts of, "Come on out, Ski Mask, we have you surrounded!"
"How long has he been in there, chief?" the blue bowman asked.
"*Sigh.* For the last hour and a half, and - hey, who are you?!"
"The name's Foxbow." He stuck out a hand in greeting.
"Another clown in a flashy costume," Police Chief Diehard said to himself. "Uh, you're not planning on doing anything silly, like going in there after him yourself, are you?"
"That's exactly what I plan on doing! Don't worry, everything's under control." He sped off toward the warehouse's back wall.
'That's what frightens me,' Chief Diehard thought.
Scaling the back wall was easy, especially considering the strength in Foxbow's right arm and the fact that he'd been the only kid on his block to have a redwood tree in his back yard. He peered through the grimy second-story window - not that there was actually a second floor in the warehouse, you understand - and tried to examine the shadows.
Nothing. Somebody'd turned on the lights, but he couldn't see anything except crates from this angle. The police were probably too scared of this character to venture in past the light switch. Well, a little thing like a lethal madman certainly wasn't going to scare away Foxbow! He felt around the window for a way to open it, realized that this was the kind of window you can't open, and smashed his way through to the inside.
He landed amid a clatter of tinkling glass fifteen feet later.
"Come on out!" Foxbow cried, pointing skyward while still prone. "You don't stand a chance!"
There was no reply.
'Hmm,' he thought, 'Maybe Ski Mask got bored and left.'
He heard the barest of perceptible footsteps.
'Then again, maybe not.'
Foxbow scrambled to his feet, being careful not to brace his hand on any broken glass, and ducked behind a crate. He flattened his back against a crate and peered out around a corner; this was't particularly helpful, but it had always looked good in the comic books. He didn't see anything.
He drew an arrow, notched it up, and drew back the bow. You never know when you're going to have to release an arrow at a moment's notice. Cautiously, he stalked around the corner.
And an instant later, a guy with a ski mask on zipped into view at the other end of the warehouse and started shooting at Foxbow with a .44 mangum. "Die, sucker, die!!!"
'Yikes,' Foxbow thought. 'None of my targets ever fired back at me before!' He had no time to waste. He brought his bow to eye-level. Sighting through the scope he'd had mounted on the grip, he loosed his overweighted arrow. The pistol shot clean out of Ski Mask's hand.
Ski Mask gasped, then tried to duck back behind a crate; but he was too slow. Foxbow had already drawn another arrow, notched it up, pulled back his bowstring, and shot down the crate on top of the one Ski Mask'd wanted to hide behind, blocking his path. Ski Mask, terrified, froze.
And while his opponent stood petrified, Foxbow charged up to him, drew yet another arrow, put it in his bow, and stuck the whole contraption right up against Ski Mask's belly.



That evening, he read the headlines of the day's newspapers while wearing his Foxbow costume. This was not the way he'd intended to get his name in the papers. Most of the headlines - or occasionally side articles - ran along the lines of, "Blue Vigilante Hunted by Police." But the headline of the Daily Planetary Bugle was slightly different:
MURDEROUS *** THIEF "FOXBOW" AT LARGE IN THE CITY!
And underneath the banner were Rob's own pictures, of course.
Great. They took his pictures, they took his job, and now they were trying to take his hero's non-existent reputation. His resources were dwindling. With what he had left, he couldn't even afford to renew his subscription to Deathgore Duck comics. What more could possibly go wrong now?
His phone rang. He picked it up lethargically on the third ring. "Yeah?"
"Hello, I'd like to speak to Foxbow, please."
Rob puzzled, then said: "Speaking. Who is this?"
"This is Don Giovanni, from The Mob. We understand you're an assassin for hire."
Rob practically choked. "An assassin? Who told you that?!"
"Why, page two of the Daily Planetary Bugle, of course."
Rob fumbled with the paper and got it open to page two. There was a continuation of the headline article, from whose second paragraph the words "hit man" leapt out at him. "You mean you actually read the Planetary Bugle?"
"All the time. The Boss's old operative had a little accident with some quick-drying cement and a deep river, and he needs a replacement. Interested?"
Rob glanced down at the empty receiver cradle and thought about slamming the phone down onto it; then he looked at his right bicep, then at his quiver across the room, then at the latest issue of Invisible Transforming Samuri Grasshoppers From Space on his bed. "What's it pay?"
"The first job's worth ten thousand dollars."
Rob dropped the phone onto the floor.
"Hello? Hello? Was the price too low?"
'Ten thousand bucks,' Rob thought. 'With that kind of money, I could buy every issue of Iranian Commando Rabbit ever written!' He picked the receiver up again gingerly. "When do I start work?"
"When does he start work, he says! Be on the dock by pier 11 at four a.m. tomorrow morning, and be ready to go." <Click>
'Ten thousand dollars,' Rob thought, hanging up the phone. 'And my real name doesn't even get involved. All I have to do is dress up as Foxbow tomorrow morning and . . .
' . . . kill someone. . . .'