Well, I think you’re trash (Ranger)

The garbage truck was out of control and there was nothing anyone could possibly do to stop it.

The trash man cometh. Throwing bits of garbage from the back of the vehicle. Clocking pedestrians. While his extra self drove, wildly, dangerously, with a penchant for mayhem.

His power was clones. It didn’t matter which one was the original. If one died, consciousness would travel to the next in line, nearest to the spot. He had a third stashed away, miles, miles away. He was not even sure if he, him, the driver, were even the original. There had been deaths, oh yes. Of him. Of others. Like that person over there who his friend had just beaned with a discarded room fan. Bulky item pickup had been today, and bulky item pickup was a BITCH!

He felt good about that. He, him, the driver. But also, he, him, the guy in the back as the truck swerved to avoid oncoming incoming traffic, cars honking, people swearing. This was New York. Learn to drive.

It was an absolute wonder the street traffic was even clear enough for him to sow discord today. Maybe that was why he had done it, veered so far off-course on his route.

“This is New York. Learn to drive!”

Ah yes, but this is New York. Who drives?! Just use the damn bus!!! Like that one, over there, the one stopped at the red light he was presently running, on the other side of the intersection.

His friend lobbed a rotisserie chicken at it. Who the hell discards a whole rotisserie chicken into the trash?!

Ah. Wait. That had been their lunch. He had taken his eyes off it for a second, and now… ah well. It splattered most magnificently on the side of the bus, right over the advertisement, in fact. A large banner for clean teeth. Now, it was smeared with chicken grease.

“LOOKS BETTER THAT WAY!” His friend screamed from the back of the truck.

He wholeheartedly agreed.

Horns wailed. Brakes squealed. They made it through the intersection alive. The same could not be said for other people.

—

“Hello, SUPER. I would like to report a disturbance.”

—

“Hello, X-men. I would like to report a disturbance.”

—

“Hello, cops?! Put down your donuts! I would like to report a mother-fracking disturbance!!!”

—

All three friends of his hung up their phones at the exact same time, and smiled malevolently to themselves. Then they each tore into their own personal rotisserie chickens, in unison. In three different locations across the city, they did this.

One was in a pub. The people around them were disgruntled by the grungy red beard and the man eating chicken through it.

One was seated at a park bench. Central Park. A jogger shot him some side eye as they ran past. He chomped on some gristle.

One was in a seedy hotel. The shower ran in the background. He was on the bed, in shorts. The shower cut short.

“Did you say something?” A woman’s voice called from the other room.

“Just how good this chicken is!” He sang back. Smug in the satisfaction of his covering of the perfect crime.

“Where did you even get that,” the woman sighed.

He chuckled to himself. “Room service.”

—

His friend walked away from the door of the seedy motel, empty grocery bag in his hand. Delivery, success.

—

Shin put down him comm device. He supposed he would have to check it out. Real bad timing.

Real bad.

Oh well.