Duke

Okay, I realize the Neighborhood Watch is supposed to be a good thing. It helps out large communites with a lot of crime. It's kind of a nice feeling, knowing your fellow man is watching out for you.

It is not a requirement in Vincennes.

Granted, we have our share of super villains, but seriously, all the Neighborhood Watch would do is this:

They get this little police radio and they go "Dispatch, Neighborhood Watch has sighted suspected super villain activity in the viscinity of Gregg Park. Neighborhood Watch on scene."

Then, they put on this goofy little amber-colored light and park a safe distance away and wait for the police to show up. Then I show up and they get back on their radio and squawk "SUPER HERO SIGHTED!" and start talking about how they're "Requesting backup" because they saw Bobby Goren say that on Law and Order.

The cops show up, get beaten, I beat up the super villain, and then the Neighborhood Watch runs away while the paramedics take away the injured cops and the super villain.

They basically just snoop around and then puss out at any sign of trouble when the cops show up.

But there's one Neighborhood Watch guy who I think might also be a super human.

They call him Duke.

Duke drives around in an ancient Cadillac. I've seen him all hours of the day and night, cruising around with the big NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH decal magnet sign stuck to the door. I don't think he sleeps.

Duke stands well over six feet tall. He's maybe 60. His face is long and his mouth is always scowling behind his jowels. His hands are enormous. They almost wrap around themselves when he's holding the wheel of his car.

He's always wearing a flat-bill trucker hat that reads "#1 Grandpa" and he always wears mirrored aviator sunglasses: State cop style. He even wears these at night.

Duke and I have butted heads so many times, I've lost count. Despite this, I've never seen his eyes. I imagine he's got that intimidating squint like Clint Eastwood, though.

Tonight, he interrupted me intervening in a domestic dispute.

One thing that really gets my goat is when man is beating around on a woman. I mean, there's no excuse for it. Granted, I'm a super hero, and I probably have better things to be doing, but every hero needs to rescue the occasional damsel in distress.

So I'm out on patrol in a fairly nice little neighborhood and I hear yelling. Naturally, I jump over back fences and through lawns and stuff until I get to the house. A tall, slender woman charges out of the house. There's something very business-like about her, despite the fact she's wearing flannel pajamas - pink with duckies - and no shoes or socks whatsoever. She's walking so fast her blonde hair nearly sticks straight out of the back of her head. In her arms is what appears to be an entire load of laundry.

"I knew I should never have trusted you!" she's screaming. Parked in the street is a brand new Scion. She throws the door open and then stuffs the clothes into the back seat.

As she's doing this, a smart-dressed man follows her out of the house. He's got a strong jaw and dark hair. He's got one of those stupid dress shirts on. One of those blue ones with the white collar. Something about those things just naturally pisses me off. A blue tie hangs loose around his neck. On the white collar is a telltale spot of lipstick.

Busted.

"Diane, just listen to me!" he protests, "It's not what you think." He sounds drunk.

He grabs her by the shoulders and he spins her around. She tries to shove him off, and that's when he rears his fist back and he hits her. His fist makes a sickening thump against her skull and she tumbles out of his arms and falls over the hood of the Scion. Her eyes go wide and her mouth works up and down like a fish out of water.

He looks at his hand and he looks at her, "Now look what you made me d--"

I know it's rude to interrupt, but I hate when guys say that after he slugs a chick. So, as politely as I could, I dislocate his jaw with a left hook.

He spins like a top and falls into the car, right next to his wife. I grab him by the front of the shirt and I shake him.

"STUUHH," he pleads, "STUUHH!"

"I can't understand you," I say. Then I grab his jaw and roughly relocate it. He wails like a cat and holds his face. His wife is now standing away from us, hands clasped over her mouth, watching the whole scene. The guy starts trying to stumble away from me, but as confused and drunk as he is, he trips over the curb and lands face-down in the grass. His wife makes a desperate moaning sound, and I realize how scared she must be. I decide a good clock to the jaw is enough for the guy. One good turn deserves another, I guess. Besides, I don't want to scare this poor woman any more than I have to. I'm supposed to be saving her, not terrifying her into a coma. I cautiously make my way over to her, holding my hands up to show her I'm not a threat.

She just stares at me, catatonic almost. I move her hands away from her face and turn her head by pushing on her chin with my fingertips. She's got a big red spot on her cheek bone that might turn out to be a pretty good bruise.

"You're the Punchernaut..." She says this in a shaky voice, barely above a whisper.

"Mmhmm. You okay, ma'am?"

"You... You saved me."

"Yeah, you all right?"

"He... He hit me and you... you hit him."

"I figured I could probably get the job done better than you. You all right?"

She kisses me on the cheek.

This happens a lot when you rescue a shell-shocked wife who just got slapped around by her husband.

I give her my best super hero smile and I back up into the street, ready to fly off, because I feel like I can. Super heroes always fly off after they rescue a pretty woman.

It's almost too late when I notice the flashing amber light and the roar of an engine. I brace myself just before Duke's Cadillac slams into me and I roll up over the hood and into the windshield.

I spin so I can look the old bastard in the face. "Evening, Duke." I nearly have to shout over the roar of the engine.

"Punchernaut." He slams on the breaks and I slide down the hood of the car and roll into the street. I hear him chattering into his car radio: "Dispatch, Duke. I've spotted a domestic disturbance on Parkinson and 15th with super hero intervention. Subject in question is the Punchernaut, over."

The police dispather squawks something back, and just as I'm getting to my feet, Duke puts the pedal to the metal. The old Cadillac roars and tears down the street toward me, but I'm ready this time. I jump up and kick my feet out so that I slide over the hood and through the windshield.

This is the third time I've done this to Duke's car. It's a game we play.

The police department always pays to have it repaired, so I don't feel too bad.

"What in the SAM HILL are you doing, boy!?" Duke swerves into somebody's yard, swatting broken glass off the front of his shirt with one hand. He takes out their mailbox which bounces over the hood and into the cab with us. Once we've stopped, he starts to say something else into the radio, but again, I interrupt. Once more, as politely as I can, I rip the CB radio out of the car and toss into the street where it practically explodes into pieces.

We stare at each other for a minute and then we get out of the car, both of us fast, and somehow he's able to keep up with me. Once we're out of the car, we slowly make our way into the street, side-stepping and moving backwards, eyes locked, waiting for the other to make some kind of move.

"You got a lot of nerve, kid." He steps past his ruined radio backwards, and his old cowboy boots somehow find their way around any of the bigger chunks he might trip over. This guy is incredible.

"And you don't? I was in the middle of something."

"That ain't nothing the police can't handle."

"I didn't see any police around, old man."

"I was around."

"Like I said, pops. No police."

"You got a lot of nerve, kid."

"We've been through this."

We stare each other down, both of us standing in the middle of the street, about 20 paces apart. Any minute now, a tumblweed should roll between us to complete the scene. The only noise is the steady crescendo of police sirens, coming from the north end of town.

"You're lucky, pops," I say. "I'm not in the mood to embarass an old man in front of his police buddies by knocking the living crap out of him."

"You knock the crap out of me? Son, I've scraped better than you off the bottom of my boots."

The sirens are too close. I can see the lights in the fog. Time for me to split. I don't feel like getting shot tonight. "Hate to leave good company, Duke, but I better get out of here."

"One of these days, Punchernaut..."

"One of these days, Duke..."

I run at him. I get within arm's reach and pull my fist back like I'm going to slug him, but instead I just take off, flying right over his head.

He never flinches.

What is this guy?