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[AudioBoxer]

"Hey, that's that Blue Shooter character!" he heard someone shout from a nearby apartment building.
"Hi, Blue Shooter!" a little boy's voice cried. Word sure travelled fast around there.
"I suggest," the blue archer announced, "That you get back inside wherever it was you came from. If and when The Mob shows up, it'll get pretty . . . um, violent."
"VIOLENT? OH NO!!" everybody gasped, and fled for cover. All except the weekday-afternoon-cartoon crowd, who stuck around for some good old-fashioned combat.
That was when the first long black limousine skidded into view. He knew what was coming; his bow was already loaded, drawn, and aimed. Both windows rolled down on the limo. The guy on the passenger side leaned out, aimed a semi-automatic rifle at our hero, got hit with an arrow, and promptly expired. The driver turned around 135 degrees and leaned out his window with a snub-nosed pistol. As fast as he'd ever quick-drawn before, Blue Shooter whipped out another arrow, pulled back, and let the driver have it. He, too, promptly expired.
Which was more than could be said for the limo. The driver had croaked with his foot on the accelerator; the car zoomed out of control into the side of a run-down brick tenement, smashing itself and a good-sized section of first-story wall. Oh well, the paint had been peeling off of that building anyway.
He walked toward the wrecked car. It happened to have come from the direction of The Boss' office. He was thinking about gaing up and retrieving the arrows from the two dead bodies when a second long black limousine screeched around the corner, heading straight for him.
He notched up again and aimed for the driver. Then, realizing that would just send it out of control like the first one anyway, he fired at the front left tire instead. The car bucked, skidded, turned sharply to the right, failed to stop, and ran right into the rear gas tank of the first limousine. The two cars went up in a flamboyant fireball.
Brushing the non-existent dirt from his hands, Blue Shooter continued jogging to the north, past the two flaming limos. That was when the third car came into view. This was a sports car, a red convertible Corvette to be precise, charging around the corner with the passenger already aiming his M-16. Blue Shooter loaded his bow. The gunner squeezed the trigger; the barrel belched flame, and a stream of no less than eight bullets arced their way toward the blue avenger.
'Fully automatic weapons,' Blue Shooter thought, ducking and dodging the shots. 'Now that's illegal!' He levelled his arrow and took aim on the gunner. Then he figured he'd probably have to shoot the driver anyway and drew a bead on the right front tire. Then he figured they'd probably just run into the other two flaming limousines, with his luck, and instead fired on their gas tank. The car made a loud boom and threw pieces of red Fiberglas all over the road. He even had to duck some of the shrapnel.
"YAAAAAAY, BLUE SHOOTER!" came the cries from all around. These people had been watching too much prime time TV. And Blue Shooter had to get going if he meant to catch The Boss before he got scared and left town.
He would have hopped in his Datsun Cheap-210 and just driven to The Boss' pad, but that would give him away as being Rob Hood. He also couldn't fire arrows and hold on to the steering wheel at the same time. So, on foot it was. Jogging. He needed the excercise anywho; he'd worked out on his right arm for so long he'd neglected his legs, and now they were almost as weak as Lou Ferrigno's. One block passed. Then another. Well, most of another, anyway. He wasn't ten meters from the corner when ten tuxedoed gunmen stepped out and pointed their machine guns at him.
"I wouldn't go that way if I were you, hero," their C.O. said.
"Oh no?" Blue Shooter asked, rushed toward them, and leapt over their heads.
They were almost too startled to react. Two of them managed to raise their guns and get off a couple of rounds, but Blue Shooter did a midair flip and avoided their small onslaught. His aim hadn't been entirely over their heads; he would come down right about on their heads, if he was accurate, which he usually was. So much the better. He fell toward the gunman in the center - or rather just a bit left of center, as there were an even number of them. He could have put an arrow right through his skull if he chose, but that would waste ammunition. Instead, he stamped down on his head with his own right foot, which not only gave the gunman a concussion, but propelled our hero ten feet farther north as well thanks to Newton's third law.
Now Blue Shooter was to the north of the nine gunmen and the one unconscious gunman; in other words, behind them. They turned. Now he was in front of them. They levelled their rifles and opened up with a hail of bullets. Blue shooter turned tail and ran, dodging left and right to evade the kilogram after kilogram of lead being eschewed at him. At least he was heading north; and they'd never be able to keep up with him on foot, anyway.
Unfortunately, the six other gunmen who popped out in front of him didn't have to outrun him.
Blue Shooter sighed. "You're really making this difficult on yourselves, you know," he said, fired an explosive-tipped arrow at them without pausing, and killed all six of them.
Meanwhile, the nine guys chasing him had run out of ammunition and were busy reloading. They were also a bit frightened by what the Blue Shooter had just done. They wouldn't be able to catch up with that blue demon themselves, but they could radio in what was happening to The Boss.
Blue Shooter jogged onward. The Boss' place lay yet a couple more miles to the north. The bunch of gunmen that he just left behind would doubtlessly be radioing in what was happening right about then. He could expect the resistance to get fiercer. Good. That would help get him in the mood.
And half a block later, two groups of twelve armed Mobsters popped out from opposite sides off the alley, ****ing their safeties.
Blue Shooter had to think fast. He could explode one group, but then the other would nail him. He could fire ten arrows at once at one group, but then he'd still have the same problem. There was only one choice. He pulled out one of his special flight arrows (with propeller ready and rope already attached), fired straight up, grabbed onto the cord, and got yanked up and away just as both bunches of gunmen opened fire.
And with no Blue Shooter between them to absorb the bullets, they shot each other. Every one of each other. Not a single one of them was left alive.
"Whew!" Blue Shooter whewed, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he continued to climb. 'Maybe,' he thought, 'I can just fly over to The Boss' hideout.' He altered course slightly, and now headed more north than up. 'Of course, the gasoline-powered engine inside that arrow sure makes an awful racket.'
But there was one other thing - no, two other things - in the air that made even more racket: two sets of helicopter blades belonging to two helicopters. Since the sun had set nearly an hour ago, there wasn't much light left, but Blue Shooter could see the ominous, insectoid, shadowy forms hovering toward him, and the gun-barrel-shaped protrusions sticking out of their fronts.
With his right arm holding on to the rope and his left arm holding on to his bow, he had to use his teeth to extend the bow's combination telescopic-sight-and-starlight-scope, and his nose to push the nightscope's ON switch. He stared through the gizmo at his oncoming adversaries. They looked entirely green, but that was the way everything looked in a starlight scope. It amplified what little light was available and displayed it through a thick green filter, you see. The fronts of both 'copters had the words "The Mob" hastily painted on, and the sides each displayed a big red - or at least red-looking - five-pointed star.
'So that's where The Mob's been getting its supplies,' Blue Shooter thought. 'I knew the Russians would get involved in this somehow.'
The guns opened fire, all four of them spewing out about seven rounds a second each. Up there, Blue Shooter was a sitting duck. He couldn't very well fire arrows while he was holding onto a rope for dear life, could he? No, he had to land before he could retalliate. He waved two short snaps up the rope and into the arrow; the arrow got the signal and started arcing downward. It was a slow, graceful arc. It was so slow and graceful that Blue Shooter wished to high heaven he hadn't installed this goddamned safety feature. The guns continued to blaze all around him.

[AudioBoxer]

This would never do. Another few minutes up there and one of the choppers' guns might get lucky and actually hit him. He strapped his bow over his left shoulder again and pulled himself up the rope all the way to the flight arrow. He grabbed the arrow's tail feathers and bent them ever-so-slightly. The arrow banked sharply and dove straight toward the ground.
Five hundred feet. <Blam> <blam> <blam> <blam> <blam>. Four hundred feet. <Rat> <tat> <tat> <tat> <tat>. Three hundred feet. The air was whistling by him now. Two hundred feet. <Blam> <blam> <click> - one of the helicopters ran out of ammo. One hundred feet.
One foot. Blue Shooter bent the tail feather back and skidded to a halt three-eighths of an inch above the ground. He let go of the rope and let the arrow do its own thing; it'd run out of gas in a few minutes, and he wouldn't be able to control it very well from the ground anyway. Determinedly, he took the bow off his left shoulder, took an explosive arrow out of his quiver, loaded up, and let fly. The arrow thwipped through the air, struck the chopper that still had ammunition, and blew it up in a shower of helicopter parts.
"YAAAAAY!" cheered the clapping crowd that had formed on the sidewalks. Blue Shooter buried his head in his hands and shook it from side to side. These people wouldn't learn until a helicopter crashed on top of them, for crying out loud!
That one remaining helicopter would probably decide to do something silly like that, Blue Shooter figured. He reached back for another explosive arrow, then remembered he only had six left. He'd probably need them later. Instead, he notched up an ordinary arrow (which for him meant an arrow that was only a pound overweight) and fired it at the chopper's rear rotor. Its stabilizer knocked out, the 'copter went into an uncontrollable tailspin. The pilot panicked, pulled a whole bunch of levers, lost altitude, and crashed into the side of a building. The airship went up in flames.
"YAAAAAY!" the crowd kept cheering. Blue Shooter shrugged his shoulders, took a bow, and kept on jogging. He could really get to like this