Down Syndrome Neighbour

Frog-Man’s alias came from a superhero who didn’t have much of an origin story, or any superpowers to speak of, apart from the electric leaping coils in the feet of his frog suit, and his endless supply of good luck. He could never get his leaping coils to launch him in the right direction, but his good luck ensured he ricocheted off a series of random objects before blindsiding his opponent with one or more of his flailing limbs. He was the equivalent of a narrative bell and whistle, if such things exist (and if you’ve read this book up to here, then you know they do), because he was an invention of the Marvel universe editors, who used him for the sole purpose of injecting slapstick humour into otherwise humourless storylines. Basically, he was a supernaturally lucky chump.

Frog-Man the drug dealer, on the other hand, was the antithesis of Frog-Man the not-so-super-superhero, and I found the aggressiveness of the irony disturbing. For starters, his personality was not froglike, unless frogs are secretly nasty little creatures that delight in meting out corporal punishment. Nor was his face or body froglike. If I were to compare his face to that of any animal, it would have to be the hyena; what with his big ears, small eyes, and Neanderthal forehead. Likewise, if I were to compare his body to that of any animal…On second thought, there’s no suitable animal, and therefore I’ll compare his body to the MIRV (multiple independently targetable re-entry vehicle), which, in military terminology, describes the payload for ballistic missiles that can enter outer space before re-entering the earth’s atmosphere to converge on their targets. They contain multiple warheads, with each warhead being targetable, and in Frog-Man’s case, there were five warheads in his MIRV: his lightning fast feet; his lightning fast fists; and his lightning fast Neanderthal forehead. In fact, standing within range of his forehead was a terrifying prospect, because I had seen him drop people in the blink of an eye for no other reason than to test out his latest improvement on the element of surprise.

I remember being at his place one time, reviewing the details of an upcoming delivery, when he started rubbing his forehead in a way that suggested he was deriving pleasure from it, while asking me if I’d mind being the test subject for his newest headbutting technique, which he called the flying face crush, or something to that effect. I declined, of course, so he called up the mentally challenged junkie from down the hall and promised him a few free pills. Minutes later, the neighbour was lying on Frog-Man’s kitchen floor unconscious, after sustaining the blunt force trauma of a headbutt combined with a front flip.

There were a series of headbutt related scars on his forehead that looked a little bit like raw ground beef. He rated these scars on a scale of ten, with ten being a death butt—a headbutt that had resulted in someone’s death. To my knowledge, there was only one of these scars, hailing from his time in Afghanistan, where he did several tours of duty. He talked about his tours of duty fondly, remembering them like normal people remember their exotic vacations. Obviously, I should never have gotten involved with a psychopath like him, but he had the best dope, because of the connections he made in…Afghanistan.

Frog-Man the drug dealer resembled Frog-Man the-not-so-super-superhero in one important way: He was lucky, which flew in the face of karma, because his gratuitous violence should have been met by gratuitous violence. As it was, nobody ever fucked with him, so he never got his comeuppance. Nor did the cops ever seem to bother him. Perhaps it was less good luck protecting him than his army of disenfranchised teens, who he paid handsomely to be his eyes and ears on the street. Known around town as his spyder monkeys, they were mostly runaways from broken homes lorded over by abusive parents, so bringing them into his employ obliged their undying loyalty, and their superlative work ethic.

If you were reckless enough to incur a debt with Frog-Man, then your day-to-day life became the subject of the spyder monkeys’ extremely thorough intelligence gathering reports, delivered twice daily. In no time at all, they knew everything about you right down to what windows in your apartment were most likely to be left open and when. He could have easily ordered them to do the necessary kneecap and finger breaking, but like I said earlier, he took great pleasure in meting out corporal punishment to his clients in bad standing. My name never made it into the pages of his black book of insolvency, which earned me his trust and the dubious distinction of being his delivery driver. He even granted me the privilege of delivering things to his girlfriend, who was profoundly agoraphobic. I was constantly picking things up for her and her throng of pet chinchillas. She was a real sweetheart, and he treated her like gold, calling her pet names like angel baby as he showered her with expensive gifts—a strange thing to see in the context of his Down syndrome neighbour accepting free pills for next-level headbutts.