Butch looked comically large in the passenger seat of the van. The seat-belt fit him; but his hips went over the edges of the seat. It couldn't be comfortable, but he didn't complain... about the seat at least. They'd stopped to grab food about every hour or so... and the boy had eaten a couple of full-sized meals every time. Jason didn't mind too much; he had calls to make, and didn't want to make them in front of the boy. Even so, he'd somehow gotten it into his mind that a 12-hour drive meant they'd arrive in 12 hours.. despite making a few hours of stops along the way.

"How far is it to Dallas? Why is this taking so long?"

Twelve years old. Right. "In a few minutes we'll be crossing the border to texas. But that's still hours away; Dallas is waaay over on the east side of texas. So. Do you know why I picked this job?"

"Because it's easy? Low-risk, not much of a threat?"

"To an extent, yes. You also have to think about what happens if you get caught, though. Most people don't really care about it when you rob a bank, or some lab, or a big business. If I were to go out there and rob Amazon blind tomorrow, the cops would be looking for me, but they'd be calling me a hero on social media and around the dinner table, and not really cooperating with the manhunt. You know why nobody fucks with your mom?"

Butch shook his head. "That's stupid. She's invulnerable. Nobody fucks with her because she could kill anybody that tried!"

"Imagine if, say, Lightning when he was around, and one of the grade-A speedsters were to go to your mom's place, carry her up to mount everest, and toss her into the sky... and one of the high-grade telekinetics were to give an assist. She could be lying at home asleep right now, and in two hours, be in vacuum, floating towards the sun... and not have noticed what was going on until it was too late."

He stopped. "Oh. That... that could work. ... Why don't they do that?"

"Your mom started out as kinda a folk hero. Standing up for the little man against big evil corporations. Thats still how alot of people see her, despite her crimes, because of both her early days working with the unions, and because of her helping fight those aliens. So any plan to kill her has political and military opposition; because any politician who agrees to take her out is gonna lose his next election, and the military knows that it wasn't guns, nukes, or planes that stopped the invasion; it was the titans. And, criminal or not, she's American; and if someone invaded us, whether it was the Chinese or some band of giant bugs with motherships no weapon we have can damage... she'd knock em right to hell."

".. So... what does that mean?"

"That means that you need to think with a mind to PR. Don't target civilians or poor people; there's no money in it, and it makes you look bad. Not only that, but if you target some people that your average joe thinks 'gets away with it' and are 'above the law'.... you can be in the same place as your mom. If Lightning had never shown up, I wasn't gonna go looking for him; not gonna give up and go to jail for anybody, but if I could've just robbed the place without the alarm getting out and been gone before anyone knew... that'd have been perfect."

Butch nodded slowly. "And this Lebowski guy. Tons of people hate him because of the whole fighting thing."

"Ideally, we won't be caught. Nobody will know we existed except the douchebag. But if we do get caught? The first thing you'll be known for is cutting some asshole who thought making poor people fight to the death was good fun down to size. Which doesn't mean we -want- to be caught, but means we aren't killing witnesses either."

"So... I can start off like mom. A hero to the little guy. Can we stop again in the next town? I'm getting hungry again."

***

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Alright, buddy, first things first. Come on. Lets take you shopping." An hour outside of Dallas; and only 45 minutes from the 'Ranch' that Lebowski lived on; Jason had pulled up to the 'Longhorn Armory and Emporium'; a gun and armor shop that featured a secondary sales floor where they regularly held gun shows and allowed dealers to come sell gear. He'd been there once before, in the days when he was still.. well. Stupid, really. Aside from the public, these people also catered to the Rangers; both the metas, and the more normal ones.

Butch looked around at the building... and the sign. "But.... I don't really know how to use guns, Mr. Eyeball."

"We'll work on that. Gotta start somewhere. More importantly, they'll hopefully have some armor... a few sizes too big for you, because honestly if I get it the right size you'll be tossing it out in a few weeks."

Heading into the building, one of the salesmen behind the counter glances over at the two; noted Jason's holstered tenner without a comment... and visibly backed up a step on seeing Butch. Jason stepped up to the counter. "My friend here is a low-grade meta. Maybe mid-grade. I want the heaviest armor you've got that can fit him... honestly loose if you got it. And the biggest gun you can get. Whatever it is, I want something that kicks so bad I couldn't shoot it. I might buy a piece for myself as well."

The man just stared at Butch for a few seconds. "Damn, man. You a football player?"

Butch shook his head. "Nah. Too high-grade. I'd take out the whole team myself and keep going."

He nodded at the response. "Not too high to do some security work though, I take it." He looked down at his computer, tapped a few keys. Picked up a walkie-talkie. "Hey Mike. Could you grab that 4xl pack and have it dollied over to the changing rooms?" The response was too garbled for Jason to understand. "Thanks." He turned to Butch. "We got something that should work for you. Head over to the changing rooms, you can try it on."

Jason nodded. "Go ahead. Make sure it fits loose, and I'll buy it."

As Butch walked away, heading towards the changing rooms, the salesman glanced down. "Uhh... you don't want it to fit loose, man. That armor stuff works best if all the stuff is in the right place, secured good and tight."

"Yeah. But he's only twelve. If we get it big enough we -might- be able to keep it for a year. So lets talk about what kind of guns you have... and what kind of blades. I might want a bit of custom work, if you guys can do it."

***

Lying in the dirt not far from the van, Butch tried not to complain about.. well. Anything. The bugs itching his arms and legs. The constant whirring buzz of the van behind them of the fabricator. He didn't even complain about how weird and ugly Eyeball's bike was; it looked like someone had taken all the bodywork and beaten it with a hammer as they put it on, and he had no idea what sort of bike it was.

Jason had a laptop laying on a rubber mat on the dirt; and a few cameras placed, wires leading away, pointed at the ranch... but was just leaving them recording, laying back, eating a sandwhich. Turkey on rye.

"Mm. So, basically. He moved here after he got out of jail. Nice big mansion, a warehouse and a few barns on the property. A few cows, but he's not really a rancher. Basically, we're gonna watch. Learn his patterns, figure out the best time of day to strike so we kill the fewest security guards and get as much time as possible to toy with the asshole before we break his legs backwards and leave him for the ambulances."

Butch sighed. "So... how long do we watch?"

"The game is in five days now. So we're gonna watch for three days, see if he has a regular pattern that gives us a good opportunity, and... while we're waiting, the fabricator is gonna print your armor plates and pads. It can do em on the road, but, well. Doing that sort of stuff is why my bike looks like that."

The boy crawled over to the laptop. Jason had warned him not to peek his head over the hill; the cameras were obscured by brush, security over there would see nothing until it was time to move. He stared at the cameras. "...Huh. Wonder what the deal is with these guys. Don't look like security."

Jason took another bite of his sandwhich. "Mm. He's only got like six cows, maybe he's got a ranch hand or something to handle them. What do they look like?"

Butch turned to Jason. "Homeless. Worn, dirty, but solid clothes. Really broken-down shoes."

For a moment, Jason was stunned. He crawled over to the laptop to examine the video himself. "...That cheeky little motherfucker is back at it. He's gathering together a bunch of homeless people again. Last time he basically held a little tournament in a warehouse downtown. Gave em cash for each fight they won. He and a bunch of his rich friends would get together and watch the show. Someone blabbed, and the whole thing fell apart. You know what this means?"

"What?"

"That means this just got a helluva lot more fun. The idea of not getting caught just went out the window. We want everybody to know about this one... just not til we're already on the way out of town. Stay here and watch the cameras. And, well. Sorry, but your armor is gonna end up looking as F'd up as my bike; I gotta pick up a few party favors."