The Second Chance (Round One: The Fitzpatrick Center)

One would think an omnipotent God-thing would be able to teleport a chap around the multiverse without the chap's accumulating any dust. But no, he could see it. A little chalky substance trying to hide inside the fibers of his coat. That wouldn’t do.

He carefully shrugged off the coat, dusted it off, turned it over, shook it out, turned it over again, shook it out some more, examined it further, and settled on carefully folding it over a hatrack. Perhaps it would be better if he marked the jacket off as a loss and fought in his shirtsleeves. He examined himself in a mirror on the wall. Without the coat he looked rather mismatched. Hmmm.

Hatman delicately put finger and thumb around his left shirtcuff and pulled it a few inches down, exposing an aggressive amount of wrist. The sleeve bunched up around his bicep, giving him a formidable look. He matched it with his other sleeve, shot his reflection a look that said, I may be in my cups and matched it with a pose that said I’m ready for fisticuffs. The overall effect was rather breathtaking. Hatman struck a devilish grin and tried not to break a sweat. “Well, sirrah, it looks like you’ve just about done it now, have you?” he asked his reflection, menacingly. “Took me for just another fop, did you? Your mistake, sirrah. I’m the Queen’s own Renaissance man, I am. I’ve the constitution of a Negroid, the discipline of an Oriental and the keen intellect fitting an Oxford man. Not to mention my hat.” He doffed his cap at the reflection. “You’ll find nothing up my sleeve, dear fellow. My hiding spots are far more—“ a rose popped into his hand, and his reflection gasped. “—Subtle.” Hatman offered the rose to his reflection, who waved it away. “No need to be modest, my good sir. A beautiful white rose for a most beautiful white gentleman.” He took a step towards the mirror and lowered his voice to a more intimate tone. “Would you care to dance, my good sir? In the ballroom as in the field of gentlemanly combat, I have both a God-given knack and the benefit of many years’ schooling. Why, the Shah of Iran himself once said that the desert lands had never seen such—“

“Sir,” came a voice. “You’re scaring away potential business.”

Hatman looked around. Yes, he was in a haberdashery, wasn’t he? Hardly a place for such… autocamaraderie. He had a great respect for the hatmaker’s trade, for obvious reasons, although this institution in particular seemed a bit shabby. For one thing, there was nothing lining the walls or shelves that wasn’t a soldier’s helmet. Hatman strode over to the counter, the very picture of dignity. “In the headwear trade now, eh?” he asked, his eyebrows sort of quivering with what he hoped was amiability. “That’s a good business for a young man like yourself, yes, quite.” It was indeed a young man, soft of the face, with a dash of chestnut in his hair that hinted at an Irish grandparent. The poor fellow, thought Hatman. Plain as the freckles on his face, and I wonder if he even knows. Well, he’s no stallion for the racetrack, but there may be a space for him in my stables. “The vogue this year trends towards the hemispherical and bulletproof, now, doesn’t it? Speak up, lad, you’re not here for display purposes.”

“Well, sir, there’s a war on. I’ve adapted my business model.” As the lad spoke, his throat wobbled unappealingly. Hatman had a sudden urge to cut that unseemly Adam’s apple right out of him… but that wouldn’t do.

“Yes, lad, and there’s nothing wrong with that, a little war profiteering. See, I came hoping to have my top hat replaced—“

“Sir,” piped up the lad, rather rudely. “You teleported in here, panicked and confused.”

“Just so, and my hat’s been a bit tight around my skull. Such tightness may constrict the cognitive aether, produce sour thoughts. I spoke to a doctor once.”

“Well, sir, if you buy a helmet, then when you walk outside and get yourself shot in the head, you’ll get to speak to a doctor again, instead of St. Peter.”

Hatman sneered politely. “Quite the little silk merchant, aren’t we lad? Why, I’d almost take you for a Jew, if your face didn’t betray… other ancestries.” That ought to put him down a peg. He knows that I know, now. The rules of the game are laid clear.

Yet the impertinent chap persisted. “I’m going to have to insist that you buy something or get out.”

He reeks of root vegetables! Drastic measures are in order. “Now come to think of it, this hat might be a bit closer to your own size.” I hope he doesn’t have lice. “It might serve to cover up the ignoble shape of your head.” He put the hat on the boy.

The occult secrets underlying what happened over the next minute have never been properly documented, and if they had, it would be unwise and unChristian to repeat them.

As the proprietor found himself indisposed (unconsciousness has that effect, was the jest Hatman made to himself), Hatman took down the “open” sign from the door on his way out. A heavy-caliber bullet bounced harmlessly off his top hat and came to rest atop the brim. He heard the marksman yell “shit,” and drop into an alleyway. Hatman harrumphed at this cowardly display and looked up and down the street. Fitzpatrick center was rather bourgeois, wasn’t it? It mattered not. Being a man who stands on his own merits, Hatman had never been one to pay overmuch heed to where he was seen or in whose company, or so he told himself now. Besides, it would be a brisk afternoon walk, and he knew the way. Thanks to his hat, he now knew all the ways, and the way back besides.