The Sacred Word

Splashes from footsteps in tiny puddles made slick by the Wilmington, Delaware rain made it impossible to track where the culprits planned to go. They had run in opposite directions. Their sudden moves seemed like shivers from vultures. The instant where they had to find shelter in a basement club permitted them to keep them discreet.

Bass boomed and lights flickered amongst the darkness. They had come through the backstage amid looks of utter shock and then the appearances of indifference shown on the performers’ faces.

At the bar sat Bernard Campbell. He had skin dark as molasses and intricate braids. He wore no uniform but showed his powers when he noticed the three men sit at the bar next to him.

“Three black Russians. Now,” demanded the crook. He led the band of thieves. Campbell held his position and looked at his foes. Methodically, he knew he could take them down with ease. All he had to do was think.

“Hey, bartender! Please send my regards to these three gentlemen sitting here.”

“Thanks, man!” Seymore Morso said. He was llily white. A gold tooth glittered in the low light.

“I know what you’ve all done by scoping your wares. Looks like a good haul. You won’t be going home tonight, though.”

“And why is that?” Freddy Gonzalez asked.

“It’s because you have stolen and you have a date with a jail cell.”

“Who are you? What’s your name?”

“Ego.”

“Ego?” Connick Dashman questioned incredulously.

“That’s right. I employ reason and selfishness to catch scum like you three,” Ego replied.

The robbers raised from their seats. “How’d you know?”

“My phone alerted me. Sit.”

“Why should we do that?”

“I’ve already contacted the police.”

Red and blue lights flashed through the tiny windows.

“Enjoy your time behind bars.”

They shuddered.