The Jump.

The Jump 

Previously on the misadventures of one Harley Walker and one Sylvester Mango, we watched the intoxicated duo take the leap of their life off of the top of the Eiffel Tower.

That’s 1,083 feet, for those taking the numbers down, and all for nothing more than the raw risk of it all. If you’re Harley, at least. As we’ve learned, our poor agent is just trying to keep up - even if that means life itself is in the balance.

Thankfully Sly, for as shipwrecked as he was, did remember the initial countdown to take that first jump into the embrace of the sky. It’s was pretty much everything afterwards that seemed to get lost in the shuffle - or in this case, the alcohol, the rumbling and unwelcoming rush of wind that only boggled his mind that much more, and the fact that he was in fact falling from more than a thousand feet above ground.

Firstly, because of the alcohol, Sly closed his eyes and seemed to fall into a beautiful chasm within his own mind. He no longer paid attention to any of the realities in front of him, nor the impending doom that would surely come if he spent too much more time forgetting to pull his chute to safely touch down.

He simply stretched his arms out, then his legs, and smiled while Mother Gravity shoved its boot against his back. Harley didn’t immediately take notice of this, instead far too distracted by the stunning panoramic view of the city that he now had. This, of course, only lasted a couple of seconds before he looked down and realized that Sylvester was flying - much faster than him, and showing no intentions of yielding towards things that are much stronger than him.

Harley, on the other hand, is a professional.

He’s done this shit more times than he’s got fingers and toes to cover the count on.

Because of that, Harley immediately knew how he had to transform his body in order to build up enough velocity to catch up with his partner in crime. Not only that, he had already established a plan on what he would do as soon as he made it to him.

It felt like an hour - but Harley’s arrival only takes a few more seconds. Harley then latched both of his legs around Sly’s waist like a giant pair of medical clamps, hooked one of his arms around one of his own, and then pulled the tether that initiated Sly’s chute to finally open.

Gotcha bub! Harley screamed into Sly’s eardrum, but he was completely out.

That was probably a good thing because from all of the extra velocity, as well as the length of time it took for that parachute to do what parachutes do, there wasn’t nearly enough space between them and a Beech tree-heavy park for the landing to be as secure as it should’ve been.

Harley’s wide eyes caught onto this immediately, and his brow narrowed a bit with concern.

“This is gon’ be a lil’ spice and dice lil’ bubba, hang on tight.”

Sly really couldn't do that though, on account of the unconsciousness. Harley was paying more attention to alleviating the fatal consequences to shitty decisions to put any more effort into making sure Sly was aware enough to take further instructions.

“BUCKLE FOR THEM TREES!” 

Harley does, even tucking his head against Sly’s back.

Sly does not, his head transforming into a Plinko ball on The Price is Right against the thinner, but just as painful, limbs - snap snap snap snap… snap… boooooooing. 

The Landing

The last noise didn't actually happen, but it’s supposed to describe the cords of the chute getting caught against a strong enough limb, and leaving Harley and Sly suspended at a relatively safe distance from the ground - in a spiderweb of Beech tree branches.

There was a moment of silence, as Harley peaked up from his bracing and took three things into consideration. 

1. The little chute rope that could, strong enough to get caught in shit and stabilize a lot of low-end weight - but was it durable enough to withstand a knife? 
2. The distance beneath them. Surely, Harley and Sly would have no problem falling from here, other than bruised spirits and tailbones. 
3. The knife. 

As low groans started barrel-rolling through Sly’s chapped lips, Harley immediately patted the side of his hip, and then smiled before pulling out his ultralight K1 survival switchblade.

With his only free arm, Harley flipped open the blade. “Sly… you with me?”

Sly’s eyes rolled back to the front of his head to try and focus on Harley through the pain. He was drooling, with scratches all over his face, but at least somewhat cognizant.

“Haarrl…ey..”

“Yeah, bud..” Harley quickly said back while he looked up at the rope to gauge the best place to start sawing away.

“I think…” Sly, cotton-mouthed from the panic, tried to unsuccessfully swallow, which turned into a quick and silent dry-heave. “I think I broke it.”

“You're a little woozy right now. Technically it’s the trees that broke our fall, little bubba. These sons of bitches know how to save a falling human like nothin’ I have ever seen before. “

“N-n-n-n-nooo.”

“Huh?” Harley finally stopped looking up, having now turned his focus towards Sly again, specifically the other arm, or the one that was left to flail unsecured while they were sucked into the womb of Beech Tree city.

Harley’s eyes widened once he realized that Sylvester’s right arm was not only mangled, but also bent in a way that just should not be. A way that you would only see in your nightmares. It was disgusting.

“Oh, shit. Your arm? Yeah, that's…” Harley took another glance at it. “I don't really know the word for it. Broken doesn't seem to really fit the picture. Destroyed, maybe.”

Sly let out another groan before he shut his eyes again.

“I bet that hurts a bunch, but dontchu’ worry that little compression fracture of yours, because I've got just the plan and from that plan, we gettin’ you some medical attencion’ and then we gettin’ the hell outta here before we become their problem to deal with.”

There were police car sirens off in the distance, an obvious indication that the French fuzz were hot on the trails of the incident and only picking up more scents as they got closer.

Harley cautiously listened to them for a second, then looked over at Sly who had somehow fallen back into unconsciousness (I wonder why). Harley let out a big sigh before ultimately moving forward with the plan in mind.

With every last bit of energy the old man had left, our Lightning Boy cut back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, forth and back, ooops, back and forth - until finally, it happened.

SNAP.

Once the cord was severed, Harley and Sylvester freefell down the short distance and landed on their rears with a mild thud.

Remember, Sly was unconscious when he fell. Repeat, un-con-scious. Harley was aware to brace again and, again, Sly was not. Thus, he landed rear and head first.

Poor Sylvester.

Harley immediately sat up as he recognized those police sirens were getting much closer. In fact, the lights of those cars were starting to flash against the walls of the market square across the street. He knew this was bad and that post-haste action had to be taken.

He started to shake one of Sly’s legs.

“Come on son, we need to high-tail our asses out of here.”

Silence. Sylvester wasn't dead, but there was nothing going into that brain right now. Laying on his good-arm’s side, a small seeping groan came out of him like a teapot on the verge of its boiling point.

Harley wasn't in any mood.

“Cut the shit, Sly. Lemme tell ya something boy.. if you don’t wanna spend the weekend with a bunch of French criminals in a cell while they play rock, paper, scissors on who gets to stick their thumbs up our virgin asses first, I'd strongly suggest you remember what's between those fucking beanstock legs of yours and….”

Harley got very, very close to Sly’s ear and then aggressively whispered:

“Gethefuckup.”

It's hard to do that when your dear friend was unconscious though, you big dumb bastard.

Thankfully, Harley was able to recognize that he was probably being selfish and should really consider his options. 

1. Leave him. Just abandon him completely, forget that he exists, and basically tell everyone that “he's France’s now”. Yes, this was still an option on Harley's mind. And the first one. 
2. Leave him. Abandon him, for now, assume that he’s probably going to be admitted to a hospital, get a disguise, go to the hospital, break Sly out, escape France with the hospital exploding in the background… or something dramatic. 
3. Or you can not be a shitrag, pick up Sly, escape the park, get him to a hospital, and then get you (and him) the fuck out of France?

“God damnit” Harley shouted into the air before unclipping the rest of the chute pack, getting to his feet, and then squat-lifting his agent until he was able to sling him over his shoulder. He lets out a groan of his own, but manages to get his balance before starting to walk towards the exit area of the park.

“Alright Sly, this is gon’ be sketchy as fuck and I know you can't hear me… But, let's face it at this point, you’re my mo’fuckin ride or die. Ain’t… shit, truth is… ain’t had that since Jennifer.”

This wasn't the time to be reflective and Harley knew that. He shook off the uncomfortable emotions and re-focused - even possibly sliding a tear away, but that’s unconfirmed.

“Alright then, game on partner.” 

The Great Escape

Harley then took off as fast as he did when he was part of the middle school track team - he remembered when the bullies would chase him around the running circle after school and never, and I mean never, caught up to him. Those French cops would've been just like those bullies in that moment, and it gave Harley assurance of one very important thing.

He’s still got it when he needs to have it. 

Harley managed to criss cross through the beech tree maze and reached the opening that leads to a very busy sidewalk and even busier traffic on the road adjacent to it.

Luckily, this wasn't going to be the day that those French thumbs were going up either of their asses, because there was a taxi parked curbside waiting for occupants.

Once Harley saw that, he let out the deepest exhale of his life and took the final limping struts to the car with Sly still over his shoulder like a championship belt.

After opening the door, he carefully puts Sly in the car, who immediately slouched against the opposite passenger door. Once Harley got in and closed the door, the attempt to direct the driver began.

A very French driver.

“Gas pedal. Step on that shit now.”

“Ou veux-tu aller et pourquoi y a-t-il in homme mort dans ma voiture?!”

He was frustrated because he believed that Sly was actually a dead man. Anybody would. Harley only understands one language - America. He turned to Sly, who now had one eye open but was still clearly not there, before turning back towards the driver with a little more aggravation.

“I will kill your entire family before you clock out today. Get us the fuck out of here, hoss.”

The taxi driver raised his hands up, also getting more frustrated, before flinging more loud French words at Harley. As you could probably imagine, Harley was about the length of a pubic hair away from actually committing a felony - before the tiniest, weakest, most mono of voices started to come out of the other person in the car.

Sylvester. 

Harley looked over at him, baffled.

“S’il void plait..je suis…terrible…ment blessed et je dois me rendre….a l’hopital le plus…rapidment…poss..ible.”

Harley raised his eyebrows towards Sly, who let out a wincing cough before falling back to sleep. He  then looked at the taxi driver, who looked back at him blankly. Naturally, Harley had no idea what he said. He insisted that with a surprised shrug. Whatever Sly said though, it was sufficient enough for the driver to put the car in drive and squeal away from the curbside.

As the car sped down the street, Harley rested his head against the back of the seat, before glancing over at Sly with a half-grin.

After a light slap against his lap, Harley assured him even through his broken slumber.

“You did good, kid. You did good. Now, let's get your shit bandaged up and then we’re gettin’ the fuck out of France.”