Punchline caught the faintest glimpse
of a closing door, and charged at it. He pushed it open, then skidded
to a halt in a poorly-lit, mostly empty room. All he could hear was
the sound of labored breathing.
He aimed his pistol at the darkness.
“Give yourself up, Barkley. I know it was you that set those
fires.”
“Looks like you've got me, 'hero.'
But what are you going to do about...this?”
Punchline saw a spark in the air, and
barely had time to roll away from the huge gout of flame that
followed. He fired his pistol at the area where the flame had come
from, but didn't hit anything.
I need to take this guy out in a
hurry, Punchline thought. But
I didn't see any kind of weapon on this guy; how's he doing this?
Another jet of flame pierced the darkness, starting a smaller
fire on the wall just behind Punchline.
“Ahh! You suck!”
“No...” Barkley replied. “But
you're getting warmer.”
“Leave the jokes to me, Barkley!”
The fire provided just enough light
that Punchline could see his opponent a few feet away. Barkley smiled
and took a deep breath.
“You're not going to sing, are you?”
Barkley pursed his lips, like he was
whistling, but no sound came out—just his breath, in a steady
stream. As Barkley lifted his right hand up to his mouth, Punchline
noticed something strange about the man's glove. There were pads sewn
into the middle finger and thumb; what they were made of, Punchline
wasn't sure.
He found out the moment Barkley snapped
his fingers: flint and steel. A spark flew off Barkley's glove, and
the air he had just exhaled suddenly burst into flames.
Punchline had another narrow escape,
though his left arm was heavily singed. “I've heard of bad breath,
but this is ridiculous!”
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