Robin Redbreast

 

 

This is the darkest story in this collection.

The story behind Robin Redbreast is interesting. I was following a tutorial to learn the nifty modo 3D software. The project was to make a simple medicine bottle. When when it came time to make the label, I decided that it would contain Evil Genius Pills.

Inspired, I decided to make a video based on these Evil Genius Pills and used digital voices, picking one cute little girl voice for the main narrator.

When it was done, I put it up on YouTube.com (Evil Genius Pills — Take 2) and forgot about it for a while.

Then I started wondering: what sort of girl would make such a commercial, and why?

 

 

“Parolee Beaumont reporting in,” I said as soon as my call was answered. “No, I haven’t been drinking,” I said in response to the first question. “No, I haven’t left the state,” I said to the second question. The voice on the other end sounded familiar.

“Goodi TwoShoes, is that you?” I knew he hated it when I called him that. Tough. He could change his last name — but he’s a stubborn Indian.

“And what if it is?” Detective Inspector Paul TwoShoes asked gruffly. I sorta expected him to argue over “Goodi” — officially there was no such thing as the Global Order of Detective Inspectors. Of course, the name fit like a … shoe.

“What, did they drop you from the force?” I asked. “Is this all the work you can get now that all the big bad evil-doers are behind bars?”

“There’s at least one evil-doer not behind bars,” TwoShoes said. Yeah, me. Mean ol’ Robin ‘redbreast’ herself. All one hundred and five pounds, five foot three inches of dangerous post-adolescent.

“Is that so?” I said, sounding surprised. “Well I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to catch him just as easily as you caught my dad.”

“I’m certain of it,” TwoShoes said. “As long as she doesn’t figure out some way to beat the ankle tractor.”

‘She’ — meaning me.

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen the error of my ways.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m at home, as your electronic gadget will tell you,” I said.

“The lights are out,” TwoShoes said.

Oh! So he was watching my place. Interesting. Not really a surprise but interesting.

“I’m in bed,” I said. I lowered my voice and added a bit of a purr, “Wanna come up?”

“I don’t rob cradles,” TwoShoes said.

“Oh, yeah, you do!” I shouted over the phone. “I was in mine when you robbed me of TEN YEARS of my life!” I shouldn’t have lost my temper, I know it but — damn! — how could he say such a thing?

“Sorry.” And — dammit! — you know, but he really did sound sorry.

“That’s nice, Goodi,” I said. “It’s a bit late. You coulda said that when they went for sentencing. When they sent me up for all my childhood.” My eyes were watering now as too many nights came back to me. “Do you know what they did to me for the first three months I was there? Do you know they put me in solitary? ‘For my own good’?”

“No,” and Goodi had the sense to sound repentant, “I didn’t know until I checked up on you.”

“And when was that?” I demanded.

“Three months after you were incarcerated,” Goodi said quietly.

Oh!

“So I’m supposed to thank you?”

“No,” TwoShoes said. “They’d already moved you when I found out about it.” A pause. “All I did was make sure that the prison governor was removed for cause.” Goodi Twoshoes would never say ‘fired’; he really had earned his nickname.

“Unh.” I was getting tired; tears do that to me. Stupid tears. I rubbed them off my face angrily. I’d sworn, ten years ago, never to cry again and here I was — only a day out of the joint — bawling like a … like a kid who was sent to jail when she was only twelve.

For a crime everyone knew I didn’t commit. Not that it mattered. The jury didn’t give a shit, nor did the judge, nor did dear ol’ Goodi TwoShoes when it came to it. Someone had to pay, the crime was too enormous — ‘a crime against humanity so heinous that it revolts all common sense to even consider it’ … and my dad was dead.

So li’l ol’ Robin, “the notorious Robin Redbreast” as the newsies decided to call me — ’cuz they couldn’t call me “Red Robin” or they’d get sued — little twelve year-old pint-sized me got to take the fall.

They even attempted to try me as an adult.

I was like all of five foot at the time, flat-chested, freckle-faced, ninety-five pounds dripping wet, with flaming red hair and “beautiful, baleful blue eyes.”

At the time, I really didn’t care. Hell, let them kill me was what I thought back then. There wasn’t anything left to live for. My dad was dead, thousands had died because of — “a heinous act of premeditated murder” — no, really, a mistake. A mistake for which I cried every night of those three months in solitary until I finally realized that that was all it had been: a mistake. My mistake, so maybe I deserved some of the punishment.

But not all of it. No, not for a mistake.

“Make sure you report in tomorrow,” Goodi TwoShoes said now. “And don’t think of leaving town.”

“Sure, no problem,” I said. “Is that all?” I knew better than to hang up on him. The shit would probably have revoked my parole just for that alone. Goodi TwoShoes.

“That’s all,” he said and hung up.

I was in my room, just like I said. Of course, I was in the room that no one had ever found, not even my dad.

Maybe if they’d’ve found my room, they wouldn’t have sent me to jail. Maybe not. I’ve had ten years to learn how people will close their eyes to the truth. How would the public have handled my room, all kitted out in pinks and Barbies? It wouldn’t have fit with their nice post-Emo terrorist girl image of me. The kid with a mascara tears, the pierced nose, the punk haircut, the intense expression — how is anyone supposed to look when they learn that their father’s dead, that he’s convicted in the eyes of the public of being a mass-murdered/terrorist and that they’re considered his happy accomplice? Would I have looked better if I’d’ve smiled? With all those blackened teeth in my face?

Did anyone REMEMBER that it was Halloween? How was I supposed to look, trick-or-treating with my Dad?

I spent a year being mad at my dad. Maybe I would have spent longer but strange things happened in the joint, things I never would have expected. I suppose the strangest thing of all is that I lived — that and they let me out.

It’s true that my dad wanted to be the most notorious evil genius in history. And he tried, he really did.

He almost succeeded in creating a mini-blackhole gun. I had to work really hard to handle that one and, even so, we ended up with the Anomalizer.

When that didn’t work, he tried to make “Evil Genius Pills” and that’s where the trouble began.

My dad was really, really, really smart. And he never set out to be evil. He made mistakes. But because he was really, really, really smart his mistakes were worse than most.

My mom died in childbirth. The car had broken down because dad had stolen some parts for his infinite poker player — the machine that was supposed to make it so he could never lose at poker. Because the car stopped along the highway, dad had to deliver me himself. Biology wasn’t his specialty — even after, he was never really good at it. He wouldn’t say — but I read the police reports — mom died from a ruptured artery. It’s rare but not uncommon. Her death was ruled “death by misadventure.”

So I grew up with dad. And he tried. He never really saw me, though. Because whenever he really looked, he saw my mother and he couldn’t bear it. So, instead, he saw a girl-clone of himself. My mother was arty, airy, light-hearted, heavy-humored, and totally the sort of person my dad needed to keep him grounded. Only she was dead and I was supposed to be my dad’s clone. So for him — by day — I was the emo-Goth super-scientist nerd lab Egor.

At night, in my special room, I could be me and draw pictures of butterflies, play with Barbies and pretend I was a normal girl. I even managed to get pink dresses and I’d put them on when I was playing.

My mother’s memory preyed on him. I guess I was maybe four or five when I finally realized what my dad was trying to do — back then — and that was bring my mother back to life. He studied biology and he worked on resurrection, revitalization, and several things.

He came up with some good ideas but, somehow, ChemCo always seemed to patent them before he remembered to file. So he was never given the credit he deserved. He’d threaten to sue; they’d rattle their lawyers; and finally there’d be a small settlement — enough to distract him and off he’d go in a new direction, sure that this time he’d find the answer and bring mom back to life.

For the first two years or more, I was his willing accomplice in this. He’d tell me all about my mother when he was working and I got this brilliant image of her, I could see how much he loved her and how great our lives would be with her back — maybe I’d have her in my special room and we’d play tea or house. Maybe — and I only thought this in the deepest, secretest parts of my mind — maybe she’d let me wear dresses to school! And then maybe (and now I couldn’t even really bring myself to think this even in the deepest, secretest parts of my mind because it was just too miraculous and impossible), maybe I’d get friends and I wouldn’t have to take karate classes and break all the bullies’ bones at recess — and then I’d never get sent to the Principle again.

But that stopped the night he tried to dig up mom’s body. I was asleep, I guess he couldn’t bring himself to take me, so I only found out about it when the police banged on the door and barged in, throwing all our stuff around and scaring me so badly that I almost wet myself.

Dad was sent to jail and I was sent to a foster home while he was there. They wouldn’t let me wear dresses, they were convinced that I liked being Goth and, after a while, out of loyalty to dad, I stopped trying.

Things were very different when he got out. He looked warier, meaner. I suppose I looked the same, too — because I discovered that the cops had found my special place and they’d taken all my pretty toys and clothes, “for evidence.” I guess none of them believed that I could actually want the stuff.

I was about eight, then, and I cried myself to sleep — when I could sleep — for the next year. I started wetting the bed again, too, but I couldn’t tell dad, so I learned how to clean the sheets myself and finally figured out how to stop the bedwetting, too.

Everything was different. School was worse, way worse. Finally, one day, some mean kid shouted, “Why don’t you go home and stay there?” I really wanted to but I knew I couldn’t.

But when I got home, I started to find out why I couldn’t. By the end of the week, the school received an official notification that I had transferred to the NightBridge school. They called the school to be certain and a very lady-like voice answered and assured them that, indeed, Robin Beaumont had been accepted and was currently enrolled there. It was the first time I used a voice-changer and I really liked it.

After that, every day dad would send me off to school and I’d go back around the house and upstairs to my special room. I studied very hard and my grades were excellent — I made sure that dad got regular report cards. And I really was studying. I studied Math, Science, Thermodynamics, Philosophy, Sociology, Criminal Law — everything. I learned French (they say I sound like a Belgian), German (they say I sound French), Japanese (they say I sound Chinese) and a smattering of Chinese (they say — you probably guessed — Japanese). I learned computer programming. And I don’t meant that baby web-programming stuff that the kids on the net brag about. I mean real programming. Because the first thing I needed to do was break into my dad’s computers to find out what he was doing.

You see, I’d decided that I never wanted to go to a foster home again. And the best way to do that was to make sure that dad never went to jail again.

And for four years, I did just that.

Breaking into his computers was the easy part. As soon as I managed, that, I had to get a spy eye into his lab and follow his calculations. So, while I was downloading his data, building a microtech robot that looked like a mosquito but could fly soundlessly when I wanted, I was also learning Calculus, Tensor Math, Manifolds, Number Theory, Quantum Mechanics, and sub-atomic element theory.

Because I discovered that dad had been trying to build a time machine. Only, after getting out of jail, he was now trying to build a mini-blackhole gun. And, from what I could tell, he was just about to complete it.

Yeah, I know, what’s a ten year-old doing learning about black holes and stuff? Well, from the time I could speak, I could say, “Black holes warp space-time.” I mean, who couldn’t? Dad taught me a lot growing up and if we didn’t do regular girlie things we did build model rockets — the kind with real liquid propellants, not the kind you can buy in a store — we learning rappelling, skydiving, hang-gliding and all sorts of stuff. When I was six, I got a microscope and, at seven, I got a telescope. I did mention that my dad was really, really, really smart, didn’t I? I forgot to mention that my mom was really, really, really, really smarter. And I’m smarter than both of them put together. Really, I’m not joking — they made me take the damned IQ test five times in the joint, they couldn’t believe the numbers. In fact, I flubbed the fifth test on purpose and that’s the number they used. So, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, I’ve got an IQ of 129 — not the 229 that I scored on the first four tests.

Anyway, Dad was good. And that mini-blackhole gun? Just about ready. It would’ve worked too, except I was smarter. Just as he was about to finish with the mini-blackhole gun, I perfected the anti-blackhole shield. So when Dad first tried his gun on the door of the First Intermediate Bank — because he was flat broke after that year in jail — I knew it wasn’t going to work because I’d added my anti-blackhole circuitry to his gun while he’d been sleeping. So Dad thought it didn’t work. Hell, I thought it didn’t work. I’m smart but I’d been rushing things too much and hadn’t bothered with the math beyond the first solution.

Of course, I knew it wouldn’t work so while Dad was banging on it (not a great idea with a quantum fusion reactor), I said to him, “You know, Dad, there’s usually more money is selling the tools of the trade than there is in doing the grunt work yourself.”

“What?” Dad looked up from pounding on the gun. Fortunately, he decided to stop at that moment — which was a good thing. “What do you mean?”

“I was thinking, rather than do the robbing yourself, why not sell the tools?”

“Sell the tools?”

“Yeah, you could advertise?”

“Where?”

“Soldier of Fortune, Evildoers Anonymous, on-line,” I said, adding with a shrug, “the usual places.”

“I don’t know …”

“Well, I could help,” I said. “After all, I’m kinda good at that sort of stuff.” I had managed, after he got of jail, to convince him that I could help him by finding suppliers. That gave me a leg up in figuring out what he was trying to do — hence, the anti-blackhole shield.

“But your common evil-doer is so dumb!” Dad complained.

“Well, that’s it, then!” I told him. “Just make an evil genius pill or something.”

“An Evil Genius Pill?” Dad said, trying out the sound of it. He gave me an approving look. “You know, that might just work!”

“Hey, and if it does, will you come trick-or-treating with me for Halloween?”

“Trick-or-treating?” Dad sounded dubious.

“All the kids do it,” I said. I could see that he wasn’t impressed. “And if people don’t give treats, then I can do some really good tricks.”

“Oh,” Dad said, sounding suddenly enlightened. “And what tricks do you have in mind?”

“What tricks do you suggest?”

Dad thought for a moment and then listed four or five really nasty tricks ranging from letting air out of tires to infecting toothbrushes with tooth-removing bacteria.

“Wow, Dad, you’re really good at this!” I told him. Maybe I could distract him enough, and maybe slow him down enough that I wouldn’t have to worry about him going back to jail.

“But first, I’ll need to make those Evil Genius Pills,” he said. I could tell he really relished the idea, even without his rubbing his hands together and laughing maniacally. But that was Dad — when he did something, he did it all out. Which is why I should have been more careful.

You see, even I didn’t think that Dad could come up with something in the four weeks before Halloween. So I slacked off, checking out Halloween costumes that I could wear and that Dad would approve. I finally settled, after having regretfully shelved the Pistol-packing Pink Barbie outfit, on emo-Goth girl. Complete with blackened teeth and a tear-drop out of one eye. When I mentioned it to Dad, he merely said, “We’ve still got to get the Evil Genius Pills perfected.”

“Come on, Dad, with your brains, it’s got to be easy!” I told him. “Just do the whole little girls thing and corrupt it.”

“What?”

“Well you know, they say that little girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice,” I told him, being very careful to scowl and roll my eyes — something I wasn’t quite faking because while I might like to wear pink, I honestly couldn’t subscribe to the whole girls-as-wimps thing. “So just take that and corrupt it — make it evil.”

“Huh,” Dad said. He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t think it’ll be that easy.”

“Well, it’s worth a shot,” I told him.

Dad got that far-off dreamy look he got when he was thinking deeply and following his intuition. “Hmm, maybe some plutonium and some anti-protons coupled with a degenerate DNA interferon bacterial transport …” he looked back at me again. “I’ll be in the lab.”

As soon as he was out of sight, I raced up to my room and fired up my computer. I wanted to know what he was doing. And, as I said, I’d promised to look at the whole marketing angle. I made a mistake, then, and got totally lost in an article in Soldier of Fortune — “Girls, the next superweapon?”

When I finished, it was way late and I was too tired. I should have checked in on Dad but I didn’t.

The next morning, he was late for breakfast. Heck, he was late for lunch. So I made a pair of sandwiches — roast beef with horse raddish and chili peppers, just the sort he likes — and ran up to the lab with it. I knocked but no one answered.

Worried, I keyed in the combination to the lock. The normal combination, the one Dad had given me. But the door didn’t open. So I left the tray by the door and ran back to my room. Inside, I fired up my computer and did a quick security scan, then I turned on the spybot in Dad’s lab. He wasn’t there. I turned on my tracking device and discovered that he was in the downstairs john. I turned everything off — with a super-genius Dad you can never be too careful — and raced back down.

“Dad?” I asked, knocking gently on the door. “Are you in there?”

“I know what went wrong,” Dad’s voice came rasping through the door. It sounded echo-y and I couldn’t figure out what was up until I heard him retch into the toilet again. “Oh, no!” he sounded weak. “That’s the twenty-third time.”

“Should I call a doctor?” I asked. Dad had never barfed more than twelve times in a row with his previous experiments and then he’d had to get his stomach pumped. This sounded serious.

“No, no, at least it’s not green anymore,” he called back weakly.

“Should I make toast or tea?” I asked, just wishing for something to do, some way to help.

I heard the toilet flush and my Dad open the door. I stood back, ready for anything. I wasn’t ready for pink. And I wasn’t ready for the hair.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your hair!” I said, pointing at it. I didn’t dare mention the pink — Dad has a thing about pink. He turned and looked into the bathroom mirror. He jumped and slapped his hands to his face, crying desperately, “I’m pink!”

“I’m sure it’ll wear off,” I told him quickly. His face, hands, every part of his body was the color pink that I dreamed about. Guiltily, I wondered if somehow I’d managed to infect his project, to somehow project my hopes into his actions — after all, neither of us could ever tell for a certainty that Dad’s old Psychic Projector hadn’t worked. “You should drink some water, get some rest.”

“Not now, not now!” He said, moving past me and climbing back up to the lab. “I’ve got it, I know I’ve got it.”

“What?”

“The Evil Genius Pills, I know what to do now!” Dad exclaimed.

“How?”

“I took some and now I know,” he told me. He gave me a grateful look that at was spoiled by the deep, pulsing pink that had filled the whites of his eyes. “Sugar, spice, everything nice — and plutonium! That’s just the start, Robin, just the start! Today the pills, tomorrow the world!”

He dashed inside before I could say anything and then, just as quickly was back with a piece of paper in his hand. “I need you to get these for me. Have them sent immediately. Use the Hermes guys.”

“What, are we ordering flowers?” I asked, glancing down warily at the list.

“No, no, the overnight guys!” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “You know the ones I mean. Why it absolutely has to be here tomorrow — make sure it comes tomorrow. There’ll be a full Moon.”

“Okay,” I said as my insides turned to jelly. Full Moon? Overnight? This was sounding serious.

“And place those ads!” Dad said, turning and rushing back inside, locking the door behind him.

Okay, now I was freaked. Dad had used the Evil Genius Pills? Or the first version, at least? And he’d turned his hair white and his skin pink! What if they actually worked? What then? What if, suddenly, there weren’t just dozens but hundred — thousands or even tens of thousands of evil geniuses on the planet?

I looked at the list and tried to make sense of it. It included aspirin, alcohol, sugar, spices — including mace — and a whole bunch of other things including — I could hardly believe it — Gummee Slops! Apparently, Dad took whole fruit Gummee Slops — so that’s where they went! — and rolled them around the plutonium-DNA-retroviral core to make the whole mess swallowable. Or, thinking back to the bathroom, at least initially swallowable.

I ran up to my room. How could I stop this? How could I make these pills not work but do so in a way that Dad wouldn’t suspect and he’d still make money?

I scanned the list. There was one thing on the list that fairly jumped out at me — vinegar. Apparently the pills were supposed to be packed in vinegar to preserve them. Hm … what if they weren’t packed in vinegar? What if they were packed in something like brine or olive oil? Hmmm … it’d have to look the same.

I got on-line and searched. It took me all night to get the list just right and then I placed the order.

And I placed the ads. And I made the little video. I thought it was pretty cute, really. Okay, I admit it, I really got into making the video. I mean, I thought that maybe someone who see it and say, “Who’s that girl? She’s got a great voice!” And then, well, you know, I was all of twelve and I liked dreaming. Is that so terrible?

But maybe, if I hadn’t been dreaming, none of this would have happened.

 

The stuff came in and Dad allowed me to take charge of bottling so he never knew about my “secret ingredient.” He smiled when he saw my ad but I could tell that he wasn’t really that impressed — maybe I should have added those explosions and fake headlines I’d thought of.

Anyway, orders started pouring in. Slowly at first, and then more and more until we were making Evil Genius Pills day and night. And we were finally getting money in the bank.

“So, I can go, can’t I?” I said to him the day before Halloween.

“What, Robin?” Dad said, looking up from the latest sales figures. “What did you say?”

“I said, can we go trick-or-treating?” I repeated. “Halloween’s tomorrow, and I’ve already got my costume.” I’d bought it without telling him when we made our first hundred thousand dollars. Evil Genius Pills don’t come cheap and we were selling thousands of them.

“Well, sure, if there isn’t anything on the news,” Dad said.

“It’s early, Dad,” I assured him, secretly relieved that there’d been no news stories about Evil Genius Pills. I was sure, because of that, that they didn’t work. I still can’t believe that I was so wrong. “So can we? It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dad said distractedly. But I knew I could hold him to his word. So I ran over and gave him a hug.

“Great,” I said, “we can start out at seven when it gets dark.”

“Okay, honey.”

“And you don’t have to worry about a costume, Dad,” I told him. “With your white hair, all you have to do is wear your lab coat and pretend that you’re an evil genius.” The pink skin, by then, had faded back to just a healthy glow (as it were).

“But I am an evil genius!”

“See? So, no problem!” I ran up to my room and then into my secret room where I looked at the dark emo-Goth costume and wondered, just for a moment, what it would be like if I had a father who would have been cool with a Pistol-packing Pink Barbie outfit. But, still … it was better than nothing.

And then it was Halloween. We rushed out about a thousand orders that day and I’d re-ordered a whole bunch of supplies, the overnight guys were non-stop at our door and some of them were complaining — and some of the neighbors had started to look at me funny when I answered the door.

I ignored them or waved as nicely as I could and then either handed off the packages or carted them inside. I couldn’t wait for the night. And we were swamped or maybe I would have had time to look at the news or the internet or something.

But I didn’t know about the manhunt until it was too late.

 

“Come on, Dad!” I called as seven o’clock came and went. “We’re late!”

“Just one more batch!” Dad called down from the lab.

“You promised!” I wailed, getting ready to throw a certain-to-succeed tantrum.

“Okay!” Dad called back. He was down a moment later, in his white lab coat. “How do I look? Am I scary enough?”

“Yup, you are,” I assured him, grabbing a bag and pulling him out the door behind me. I was pretty sure I heard it latch. Pretty sure.

We went down our street first, then around to the next block. Dad was really getting it the whole evil genius thing — even as the Evil Genius Pills were getting into everyone else.

We tricked and treated for about an hour and … honestly, it was the greatest night of my life! Finally, I was tired and told Dad that we could head home.

We saw the lights when we rounded the corner to our block.

“Is that our house?” Dad shouted, breaking into a run. “It’s on fire, Robin!”

Dad raced way ahead of me. I was tired, my feet hurt, I had a full bag of candy … none of it really mattered, though. If I’d known, I would have dropped the bag, I would have torn after him, maybe stopped him but —

Three shots rang out and I saw Dad stagger, clutch his chest and stumble.

I dropped my bag then, you can bet and I ran, and ran, and ran and I was screaming and I ran right into the first policeman — Goodi TwoShoes himself — and I started clawing at him, I racked my fingers on his face and I tricked to kick him and beat him and — rough hands pulled me off and held me, no matter what karate moves I tried and I screamed and screamed and still kicked until I had no more energy and then —

“Robin Beaumont, you are under arrest, everything you say can and will be held against you …” Goodi TwoShoes read me my rights.

You see, I didn’t know it and Dad never found out. But that was the Night of the Zombies. The night that everyone who ate too many of our Evil Genius Pills turned into stark raving mad, flesh-eating zombies. And, all over the world, they killed tens of thousands of people before they were finally destroyed.

It was Goodi TwoShoes who figured it out, who traced the outbreaks to us, who set up the arrest, who thought that Dad was another raving zombie — the white hair gave them away — and shot him four times in the chest while a fireman hosed him down with gasoline.

They never lit the match. My assault had done that much.

 

And so that’s how I lost my father and ten years of my life.

The cops found everything, took it all. Except my room. I guess if I hadn’t been working so hard on it, maybe my Dad would still be alive. If I’d told him about the anti-blackhole shield or what happens when you combine it with an equally strong mini-blackhole generator, maybe he’d still be alive. But I didn’t. I was afraid. And … to be totally honest, I thought that this one time I could have something that was all my own.

The Anomalizer. What happens when a blackhole generator and a blackhole shield operate at the same time? An anomaly. A void in the space-time continuum. Whatever is inside is no longer here or there — it just is.

Which is why no one found my room.

And which is why Goodi TwoShoes will never worry about my next report. Because in five minutes, I’m going to attach my special micro-Anomalizer to that prick’s car and he’s going to go nowhere … forever.

And after that? We’ll see.

My name is Robin Redbreast. You killed my father. You stole my childhood. Prepare to …