The Life and Times of Bomb Jammer

     I stiffened from where I was dressing a Bombfish. I barely managed to keep my knife from cutting away too much of its tough armour-like scales; if I had stuck the blade into the fish wrong, I might have struck one of its internal organs.

     “Sorry, BJ!” a Maraquan Lupe called out, quickly picking up the fallen pot from the floor.

     “Just be careful, Alet,” I answered, taking a deep breath and remembering where I was. I was in a seafood restaurant, not at a crime scene trying to disarm a bomb. I was with other chefs in the kitchen, not huddled with the Defenders of Neopia at their headquarters. Shaking my head, I went over this one more time before going back to my work.

     Probing in the places where its stubby fins met its softer underside, it did not take long for me to finish skinning the Bombfish. That was the easy part.

     The hard part is not too different from defusing a bomb.

     Some of the Bombfish’s internal organs can cause problems like indigestion, particularly nasty bouts of Bloaty Belly, and…well, let’s just say there have been worse. That’s why all the internal organs have to be removed carefully. Every trace of them. Only then can I begin to prepare and cook the fish. It can be fried, served in a sauce, or tossed with salad or noodles. The flesh lends itself very well to different flavours. Assuming, of course, that it has been dressed by a professional.

     And that professional is me, a chef of Open Sea.

      Open Sea is a restaurant comprised of a network of wooden platforms with tables and chairs built over the bay and connected by footbridges. At the end of the network is our kitchen, where our patrons can watch us work – watch us try and find the Transparifish in its aquarium, make sure that the Chaosfish and the Madfish do not mingle with each other, and pull the Inferno Mollusks out of their shells without getting burned. And though it has been years, many customers still recognize me as Bomb Jammer, ask me for my autograph, and of course, ask questions about my past and present jobs.

     “Mister Bomb Jammer, do you remember me?” a middle-aged Kacheek asked, pulling a Ruki child away from pressing their face against the glass window where they could see me chop Bombfish fillets. “I was at the National Neopian with my parents…and robbers had planted a grenade in one of the safes. Dr. Flexo was there, and Judge Hog, and you, Mister Bomb Jammer, and all of you saved the day – “

     My knife hovered over the fillets and I stared out into the distance, stared out at nothing in particular. The Kacheek’s words seemed to vanish like the morning mist as the scene of that day replayed in my mind.

     Bank tellers hiding under the counters. Dr. Flexo using his stretching powers to pull customers to safety – including a young Kacheek who had frozen in fear. Judge Hog punching robbers while I went into the safe and immediately tinkered with the grenade. Its timer ticked second by second, but I was faster than the seconds.

     That was my superpower. Quick reflexes meant I could work faster than any bomb timer.

     Well, almost any bomb timer.

     “Hey, ma’am? No talking to the chefs while they’re working. Talk to Mister Bomb Jammer when he’s off his shift, okay?”

     A Mutant Jetsam in a shiny, sequined suit slithered up to the Kacheek and the Ruki and flashed them a grin which was equal parts ‘Thank you for your patronage’ but also, ‘rules are rules’.

     “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said the Kacheek, bobbing her head as she ushered the Ruki away and left. I glanced at the Jetsam – Ritz Rollah, the manager of Open Sea, who was always clad in a shiny, sequined suit and a matching bow tie. They gave me a wink before striding away to slip into the sea and chat with a table underwater full of snappily dressed Koi. I mouthed my thanks as I resumed my work, tossing the Bombfish fillets into a pan with some butter, garlic, and onions. By instinct, I knew exactly how much salt and pepper to add.

     I smiled. My reflexes were not what they used to be, but they were still enough to ensure that I didn’t carelessly drop any fillets onto the floor.

     “Is the Bombfish done? Oops… behind, behind.”

     Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a Faerie Nimmo hovering behind me with a dish of brown sauce.

     “Give me one minute on the fish.” When my minute was up, I tipped the fillets onto the dish. “I’ve been hearing about Neopians who are reckless enough to try and eat improperly prepared Bombfish.”

     The Nimmo pursed her lips. “They probably think they won’t get sick if they’re just careful enough.”

     “Two orders of Bombfish and Inferno Mollusk stew!” a Maraquan Acara waiter called out, waving the ticket.

     “Being careful isn’t always enough,” I said wearily as I picked up another lucky Bombfish to pass under my knife. A ringing noise went off nearby, and I jumped. It took a few seconds for me to regain my composure and begin working on the Bombfish – but not without craning my neck to see where the ticking and the ringing had come from and making sure that what I was seeing was, in fact, an egg timer.

     It was an egg timer. There would be no explosions in this restaurant.

     * * *

     My shift came and went, as it always did. As I swam away from the restaurant and toward the shore, Ritz caught up to me. They probably did not have super reflexes, but they were always so graceful on their tentacles.

     “Hey, BJ, my dude,” they asked, “have you thought about what you’re gonna do about…you know?”

     I paused, floating in the water. I caught a glimpse of my reflection – a White Flotsam in a waterproof chef uniform. For a moment, I imagined my old blue and grey Defenders of Neopia costume, with a large “B” made to look like a bomb and the “J” serving as its fuse.

     No one in the restaurant used my real name. To them, I was always BJ. Bomb Jammer, ex-Defender of Neopia.

     “I don’t know yet,” I mumbled. “So many Neopians were ordering Bombfish that it kind of just…I couldn’t think about it much.”

     The Mutant Jetsam sighed, folding their arms across their shiny jacket, and looked me straight in the eye. “Well, whatever you decide, just let me know, okay?” They patted me on the back. “I suppose you can take the Defender of Neopia out of the Defenders of Neopia, but…eh, you know how that goes. Of course, I want you to keep working at Open Sea. But that’s me. What’s important is what you want to do.”

     “I want to keep working there, too,” I said. “I’m not going back to the Defenders of Neopia. My time with them is up – and I’m sure Judge Hog knows that.”

     “If he knows that, why is he asking you to come back to HQ?”

     I shrugged. It wasn’t like Judge Hog to be so cryptic. He had just sent me a letter asking me to meet him at the Defenders of Neopia headquarters without telling me why. But if he didn’t want to recommission me, what did he have in mind?

     “Guess I’ll find out.”

     Ritz sighed. “Be careful. I know you’re a superhero – “

     “Ex-superhero.”

     “You know what I mean. Can’t lose my Bombfish expert.” The Jetsam winked while patting me heartily on the shoulder. “And my good friend.”

     * * *

     Some superheroes’ powers never wore out or waned with age. Mine did.

     As if that wasn’t enough, a number of villains learned how to beat me at my own game. I shuddered when I remembered the Third National Neopian, where we successfully apprehended a band of robbers – but lost the bank itself to an explosion from an erratic grenade. There was also the bomb that Lightning Lenny had to carry away and hurl into the ocean because I couldn’t figure out how to switch it off in time. Judge Hog had also noticed when I hesitated, when my fins trembled over the wires when I could no longer beat my records.

     I stared up at the Defenders of Neopia HQ and wondered what use I could be to them – a retired, ageing ex-superhero. I took a deep breath and pulled out my keycard – one of the gifts I was allowed to take with me when I resigned. I was told I would always be welcome, even though I was no longer active.

     But there was a small voice in my head that constantly whispered, “Are you really, truly always welcome, after you left in disgrace?”

     The doors opened to my keycard and security code. When I stepped into the building, for a moment I felt like Bomb Jammer again. Old and new faces greeted me: former colleagues and young recruits. I just smiled and waved, telling them I had an appointment with Judge Hog. I didn’t think I would be able to talk to anyone else properly until I found out what Judge Hog wanted with me.

     It didn’t take long for me to come to Judge Hog’s office – spacious, decorated with his old superhero suits and Neopian Times articles and comics about him, and with a nice view of the training grounds inside the HQ where the Defenders of Neopia worked out and practised with minimal collateral damage to the building itself. Judge Hog stood up from his desk, crossed the room, and grasped my fin heartily.

     “Bomb Jammer! Good to see you again, old friend! Why don’t you come visit more often?”

     “Business at the Open Sea has been booming.” I laughed shortly at the unintended joke. It didn’t take long for my mirth to fade away like a Transparifish swimming out of view. “You really want me, a washed-up retired superhero, around? Why did you call me?”

     The Moehog breathed in and out, folding his arms across his ample chest. “I know you’re retired, but…”

     “But…? Are you asking me…to come out of retirement?”

     To my surprise, Judge Hog shook his head. “No, no, nothing of the sort. I understand why you left. But we are training…I suppose you could call them the Defenders of Neopia’s new bomb squad. We thought that, instead of leaving bomb disarming to a single Defender like we did with you, it would be better if we trained a full team specializing only in bombs and other explosives. But there’s one more thing they need. A mentor.”

     A mentor. I turned the words over and over in my head like Bombfish fillets that had to be evenly fried.

     “You want me to teach them,” I said slowly, and grimaced. “Boss…why me? Don’t you remember the Third National Neopian? A lot of villains have figured out my weaknesses! Your new bomb squad shouldn’t be anything like me!”

     “And that’s precisely why we want you to teach them,” Judge Hog insisted. “Bomb Jammer, you’re still the best bomb expert the Defenders of Neopia ever had. We were hoping you’d come by and help train the bomb squad when you’re not working.”

     I glanced away briefly, gripping one of my fins. “Boss, you also know the only thing my reflexes are good for now is – “

     “But you still have your knowledge and experience. You can leave them with the new bomb squad. The new Bomb Jammers, shall we say.”

     “Please don’t call them that.”

     “Yes, yes, I get it. You are the one and only Bomb Jammer, after all.”

     “No, I don’t want them to be like me.” I spread my fins. “I want them to be them. They don’t have to try to be like me, who caused the incident at the Third National Neopian. I don’t know what powers or skills they have but they’re probably different from mine.”

     Judge Hog paced his office silently and looked at one of the framed Neopian Times news articles on his wall. “You don’t have to give me an answer right away. I just want you to think about that. If you say yes…” He chuckled. “Well, we miss having you around, and it’d be nice to see you more often, catch up and everything.”

     A new bomb squad. Maybe they wouldn’t be called Bomb Jammers after me, but if they were new to the job, someone had to prepare them for what they would face. Not all bombs can be disarmed quickly. Sometimes all the best-laid plans fail. Sometimes, being careful wasn’t enough. My eyes flicked toward the ceiling, toward the round lamps that lit Judge Hog’s office.

     Someone had to be there for them – someone who would know exactly what they’d be going through.

     I rubbed my temples. “Are you sure you want me to be teaching them?” I asked tentatively.

     “I wouldn’t ask you now if I wasn’t sure,” Judge Hog answered, and I knew from his expression that he was not kidding.

     I pondered this again. “And I get to keep my job at Open Sea.”

     “Of course. Think of yourself as a…guest lecturer.”

     One can take the Defender of Neopia out of the Defenders of Neopia, as Ritz had said, but I guess the Defenders of Neopia stay, even after one has left them long ago. I wondered if I was making the right choice to mentor the next bomb squad when crashing pots and ringing timers in the kitchen still made me jumpy.

     I felt like I was facing a new explosive to diffuse, to solve like a puzzle. But I straightened up and met Judge Hog’s gaze.

     “Just give me the schedule ahead of time so Ritz and I can talk about it,” I said, nodding.

     At least, this way I can make sure another Third National Neopian incident doesn’t happen. Maybe these new Defenders were stronger and faster than me, but they haven’t seen or experienced the things I have. They don’t have to learn the hard way.

     Surely they’d be more likely to listen than the kids that laugh off my stories of what happens when you eat Bombfish not dressed by a professional.

     “Is that a yes?” Judge Hog asked hopefully.

     I smiled. So, the Defenders of Neopia still had use for a retired superhero – who maybe isn’t quite as washed up as he thinks he is.

     “It looks like we’ll be working together again – just not quite like old times. Then again, the old times are behind me already anyway.

               The End.