I. The Dame and the Static in the Air
It was a Thursday night, the kind that sits heavy on a man's shoulders.
Rain hit the pavement like a bad alibi, and I was nursing a bourbon in my office,
feet on the desk, waiting for the phone to ring.
It never did—except when trouble came calling.
Then she walked in.
Legs for miles, lips like a sin, and eyes that held secrets darker than the alleyways of this town.
She was shaking like a radio dial caught between stations.
"Mr. Johnson," she breathed, voice smooth as moonlight.
"You’re the only one who’ll believe me."
I’ve heard it before.
Lights in the sky, shadows at the window, missing time—
the kind of stories that make the feds laugh but keep me in business.
I took a drag from my cigarette, let the smoke curl around the ceiling fan.
"Try me, sweetheart," I said. "What’s the score?"
Her name was Sylvia Locke. Worked nights out near the airfield.
Said she saw something—something big.
Floating, humming, warping the air like heat over blacktop.
Then—BAM—vanished.
"Left my hair standing up like I kissed a live wire," she whispered.
"Felt it in my teeth, Mr. Johnson. Like the sky had a heartbeat."
I flicked my ash, nodded slow. I knew that feeling.
Had it myself once, back in '52 when I got too close to something Uncle Sam said didn’t exist.
Ever since, street lamps flickered when I walked by, and my radio picked up stations from Venus.
Downtown, the boys called me Electro-Magnetic Johnson.
II. Trouble in the Neon Glow
I took the case.
The airfield was quiet, too quiet.
I parked a mile out, hiked in with nothing but my .38, a flask, and a Geiger counter that wouldn’t shut up.
There were tire tracks where there shouldn’t be, scorch marks in the sand,
and a hunk of metal half-buried that didn’t look like it came from Detroit.
I had just bent down to touch it when—
"FREEZE, JOHNSON!"
Damn.
A flashlight cut through the night, and I turned to see two suits stepping out from the dark.
Federal. Maybe Air Force. Maybe worse.
"You’ve got sticky fingers for a guy without a badge," Suit #1 sneered.
I shrugged. "I like souvenirs."
Suit #2 reached for my coat, but stopped cold.
A spark snapped from my collar to his hand, like static after a bad storm.
"Jesus!" he yelped, shaking out his fingers.
I grinned. Electro-Magnetic Johnson strikes again.
"You’re playing with fire, Johnson," Suit #1 growled.
"Walk away, or you’ll disappear like the rest."
I let my eyes drift to the desert.
There were stories about guys who got too close.
Some wound up dead.
Others wound up... changed.
"You know me, boys," I said. "I don’t walk away easy."
The suits shared a look. Then Suit #2 reached into his coat—
But I was faster.
A right hook sent him sprawling, and before Suit #1 could draw, I was gone—
back into the dark, where ghosts and old cases lived.
III. The Desert and the Truth
Back at the office, Sylvia was waiting.
She had the same look I’d seen before—
people who saw the truth and wished they hadn’t.
"I don’t want to know anymore," she whispered.
"Whatever’s out there... it’s too big."
I poured us both a drink.
"Big doesn’t mean untouchable," I said.
"But it means dangerous."
She downed her bourbon in one gulp, grabbed her coat.
"Be careful, Mr. Johnson."
I walked her to the door, watched as she vanished into the city.
Outside, neon signs buzzed and flickered when I walked past.
A car with government plates rolled by slow, just watching.
I lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke into the cold air.
The truth was still out there.
And as long as the sky hummed at midnight,
as long as men in black lurked in the shadows,
as long as the D.A. kept calling me Electro-Magnetic Johnson with a nervous chuckle—
I’d be watching, too.
Waiting.
And ready.
Because Action Johnson never quits.
