The Amazing Adventures of Phoenix Jones: And the Less Amazing Adventures of Some Other Real-Life Superheroes: An eSpecial From Riverhead Books Read Online Free

our final night patrolling together. Phoenix is still embarrassed about our essentially crime-free washout patrol of the other night and is hoping to show me something more dramatic. They’re a small team tonight—Pitch Black and Ghost are his only companions.
    We begin at 1 am in Pioneer Square. The bars are closing and drunk kids are piling onto the streets, but there’s still a frustrating absence of crime. Phoenix notices a girl sobbing in an alleyway.
    “Are you okay?” he asks her, bounding over.
    “We’re good,” her friend says, quite sharply.
    But then, from somewhere up the street, we hear a shout: “I’m going to fuck you, bitch.”
    “Let’s go!” yells Phoenix. He, Ghost, Pitch Black, and I start to run frantically toward the mystery commotion.
    “It’s the YouTube guy!” a nearby teenager shouts delightedly. “Can I get a picture of you?”
    Phoenix screeches to a halt.
    “I’ll be right with you guys!” he calls to us. He poses for the girl.
    “Phoenix!” I sigh.
    By the time Phoenix has had his picture taken, the potential criminal and victim are nowhere to be seen.
    By 3 am we are giving up hope. Phoenix is reduced to suggesting we rent a hotel room, phone some prostitutes, and ask them on their arrival if they need help escaping the web of prostitution.
    “I think the problem with the plan,” I say, “is if a prostitute turns up at a hotel room and sees three men in masks, she’s not going to immediately think, ‘Superhero.’ Plus, she may have to travel right across Seattle. It’ll be an hour out of her night.” They agree to abandon the idea.
    Suddenly we notice a man across the street drop a small, clear bag onto the ground at the feet of another man.
    “YAHTZEE!” yells Phoenix. He rushes across the road. “What did you just drop?” he asks them.
    “Pretzels,” says the man, picking the bag up and showing it to us.
    There’s a silence.
    “Good!” says Phoenix.
    We adjourn to a nearby café. “Aargh!” says Phoenix, in frustration.
    Our very last hope, at 4 am , is Belltown. When we turn the corner into the district, everything changes. By day this place is nice—with bars and restaurants and art galleries. It’s just down the road from the famous Pike Place Market. But now, at 4 am , the dealers staring at us look nothing like the exhausted old crackheads from the bus stop, nor the two-bit pot dealers from Washington Square Park. These are large gangs of wiry young men. They stand on every block. The police are nowhere to be seen. I take in the scene and instinctively take a small step backward.
    “There’s a possibility we could get into a fight,” whispers Pitch Black. “If that happens, back off, okay?”
    “What are you doing?” a man calls from across the street. He’s part of a nine-strong gang.
    “Patrolling,” Phoenix calls back. “What are you doing?”
    He, Pitch Black, and Ghost walk toward him. I reluctantly follow.
    “You’ve got to respect people’s block, man,” he’s saying. “You don’t come down here with your ski masks on. What are you doing, getting yourselves entwined in people’s lives? You guys are going to get hurt. You understand? You want to see our burners?”
    I’m sure I remember from The Wire that a burner is a stolen cell phone. But that doesn’t sound contextually right.
    “I don’t care,” says Phoenix.
    “You don’t care?”
    “Not really.”
    “Not really?”
    “I’ve already been shot once,” says Phoenix.
    “I’ve been shot three times!” another member of the gang says, looking weirdly proud. “One motherfucker round here got shot in the nighttime. Innocent bystanders get shot here. Think about the bigger picture. You’re putting your lives on the line. If you guys get killed, if you guys are in a casket, your mommas are going to be like, ‘For what?’”
    “Don’t be a hero,” another adds. “That superhero shit? This is real life! You’re going to get hurt, fucking around.” He