The homeless man sways back and forth, back and forth, on the street corner just across from the big gleaming white phallus of Los Angeles City Hall.

He’s either preparing to cross the street or keel over and die.

But he won’t die.

Not yet, anyway.

After a few moments he wipes his brow, hoists the box under his arm, then ambles across the street.

Good puppet.

Watch him walk through the neatly designed plaza, enter the front doors of the gleaming new Police Administration Building, and

make his way right up to the smooth polished wood partition of the security checkpoint.

The homeless man stands there and waits for a guard to see him, just as instructed.

Guard asks,

Help you?

The security detail is used to men (sometimes women) showing up in this condition, looking for handouts or a smoke or a bathroom, but this homeless man merely smiles, revealing rotted, pulpy gums and meth–ravaged teeth, holding up the box like a moron, wordlessly gesturing for the guard to take it.

Just like I told him to.

The expression on the guard’s face practically screams:

BOMB

Everybody scrambles.

The new administration building has state–of–the–art antiterrorism gear—you don’t go dropping $437 million on a new police facility without dedicating a fat chunk of that money to security, not in this post–9/11 world where government buildings, and public servants, are prime targets.

Through the plate–glass windows I watch as the homeless man and his box are forcefully and quickly separated.

I sit on the bench and sip a cup of slightly bitter shade–grown coffee.

At long last, it begins.

*

I can do many things.

Things you couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Powers, skills, and abilities beyond the human ken.

However, I cannot see through walls.

Still, I know exactly what is happening inside police HQ right this very second.

By now, the suspected B–O–M–B would have been brought to an outside facility for examination using the latest equipment. X–rays. Chemical tests. Each test costing the residents of Los Angeles a stunning amount of money.

The old protocol used to be simple: Blow it up first, sift the remains later.

But not now, in these heightened times.

If only they would open the box, all would be explained. But I

knew they wouldn’t open the box, because they feared a bomb might be inside.

And truth be told, they are right. I did send a bomb.

Only it’s not in the box.

*

Now the homeless man would be brought to an interrogation room with two deputy chiefs of the Counter–Terrorism and Special Operations Bureau.

I checked the rosters and knew exactly who would be in that room with the foul–smelling homeless man.

Men with checkered pasts.

And the homeless man wouldn’t say a word. He’d be semi–coherent, at best.

Wouldn’t ask for a lawyer, nor respond to direct questioning.

Wouldn’t dare.

Just like I trained him.

[To enter the Labyrinth, please go to Level26.com and enter the code: boom]