"Marjorie Perloff is in Grave Danger" by Steve Finbow They come out of the sky on feathery threads looped through their belt buckles. Their faces are plump with carbuncles and they are dressed from head to toe in a lightweight black stretch material that leaves little to the imagination. Two land and pivot sideways, looking for traps, looking for ambush. The remaining two land shortly after and assume the same position. The four form a rough cross staring out through minimal eye slits at the cardinal points of the compass. Their knees are bent like those of a cat in mid-spring; their arms flare out as if they are surfing. The one on point north gestures that all is clear and for them to move out. They are as silent as yesterday's wind. A smooth fur – Could it be cat? Could it be seal? Could it be otter? – cushions the bump and would-be jangle of their knives, their guns, their crossbows. Sitting at her desk, a copy of the Collected Poems of Robert Lowell in one hand, a chili cheeseburger with dill pickles in the other, Marjorie Perloff is kicking loose. Her black leather pumps are saying three o'clock under her swivel chair and she is in her favourite position – knees curled up under her, sunglasses on top of her head, listening to John Cage's Perpetual Tango, bopping away with her pink iPod. She is reading, for the umpteenth time, Lowell's The Quaker Graveyard in Nantucket and there's a blackish stain of tea off centre, and she is still coughing violently and light is seeping in from the south California sun. The phone rings and she juggles the burger and book, whips off the earphones, and says almost breathlessly, 'Marjorie Perloff.' A beat. A sigh. Silence. 'Hello?' She says. Nothing. She mutters at the edge of shouting. Replaces the receiver. Returns to her book. The man in Bermuda shorts, Keds, knee-high socks, Hawaiian shirt, Lakers baseball cap, and $5 mirrorshades didn't stand a chance. The knife tore him open as if he were a buttery whale. Viscera. God, they almost filleted him. He flopped onto the just-waxed floor of the shopping mall like a bloodied paperback. The woman with the pushchair free-dived from the mezzanine, her baby and vehicle performing slow parabolas under the chandeliers, made almost chocolate-box romantic by the billowing mists of the fountain. The fountain home to a gaggle of polystyrene cartons and a paddling of paper cups. The waters of the fountain now sanguineous. The assassins ransack a Starbucks, berserk a Toys R Us, hooligan a JC Penney, thug a Banana Republic. Their outfits are free from body matter. They howl internally – the pleasure of killing is within them. These murders are but entrees to the main course – Marjorie – Where are you, Marjorie? They're coming to get you. She kneads her ankles with the heel of her right hand, wipes a tiny wet grain of sleep from her right eye. She brushes crumbs from her red cashmere turtleneck and uses the 1220-page Lowell to shoo a cockroach from under her desk. She straightens her legs, her calf muscles are tight, and she contracts and relaxes them in turn. She toes her pumps upright and slips into them, her tights catching on her Hallus valgus. A small hole appears in the flesh-colour silk (a treat after a long walk in the Sierra Nevadas) and, if she is not careful, a small sore will appear later on the bony lump, and it will redden and inflame and may, in time, become infected, pustulate, blister, it will hurt. She slips her sunglasses on to her nose, looks over the top of them to locate her bag, double checks for purse, notebook, phone, and slips the City Lights copy of Frank O'Hara's Lunch Poems in to the suede innards, grabs her pile of night-time reading and leaves her office. The day is bright and the song of the birds is meretricious. They come low over the walls, invisible. Their outfits are urban camouflaged. Their language is nothing but gestures. Their breath is the wisp of a hummingbird, the sway of a lily. They work as a group. The man west brings down yellow jackets with a blowpipe fashioned from a reed wrapped in leather as thick as human hair. The man east strangles starlings with a garrotte made from the whiskers of Felis domesticus. Man south scatters West Nile virus like so many gum wrappers. Blades spin in the hands of man north, creating a soft purring sound while mincing gnats and fruit flies. They reach the faculty building and melt into the walls either side of the main doors – stealthy telamones. Their muscles settle within their uniforms. Their eyes lock at a point somewhere. They close their eyes. The yellow of the day paints their conjunctiva and fades to a maroon darkness that is almost vegetal. Her pumps make a clip-clop sound on the stairs. Students hang around the corridors. they want to ask her about Robert, about Frank, about Arthur, about Ez. But she doesn't have the time. She doesn't have the inclination. The Stairmaster is calling like Agleope, the treadmill is harkening like Parthenope, the rowing machine beckons like Thelxiepia. She's through the wooden swing doors like a thirsty John Berryman. They let her get two steps and then, low, like thunder on Mars, a roar starts and they are alive and all about her. Their bodies lithe with harm. She pulls her left big toe in, and deftly rearranges the hole in her silk hose so that it doesn't interfere with her, doesn't chafe. A rivulet of sweat runs down her back and tickles her like a watery ponytail. She cannot see their eyes. They smell of plastic and lemonade. Man west pivots and flicks out a foot sharp as can be. Marjorie blocks it with Tractatus Logico-philosophicus, brings up her knee to conjoin with his groin and he is down in a heap of exhalation and vomit. Man east brings his two arms down toward her neck in a chopping motion. Marjorie ducks and slams Tom Raworth's Collected Poems in to man west's solar plexus and he is down quivering and salivating like a rabid thing. Man south takes to the air, spins, and helicopters a kick to her head. He catches her sunglasses and they arc off into the sunlight. Marjorie scowls, catches him on the way down on the bridge of his nose with the spine of Lyn Hejinian's Oxota – a most delicate procedure. Blood almost drowns him, mucus makes him gag. Man north looks around him. His colleagues are down and dirty with their own secretions. Man north pulls a blade that looks like it's been fashioned from the tail fin of a shark. It glistens dully and doesn't appear to have a shadow. Marjorie plucks her sunglasses from the grass. Puts them on. Re-establishes cool. Man north makes cutting motions with the knife, his arms a blur of muscles in black. Marjorie looks up. Marjorie looks down. Man north juggles the knife from right hand to left from left hand to right. Marjorie heaves the Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson into the sky where it topples over itself fighting gravity, peaks and descends like an ungainly owl, heavy with its own portents. Man north slashes at Marjorie's face as she retreats. Man north moves in. He pulls a syringe from a concealed pocket and is about to puncture Marjorie's perfect skin when the Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson strikes his head and he bites down hard on his tongue extruded to aid concentration. The tip bounces on the tarmac, settles. Rhythmic spurts of blood pulse from the stub and he falls to the ground in a slow corkscrew. Marjorie gathers her books, and heads to the gym, pleased with her accidental power. About the Author: Steve Finbow lives in London. His fiction, essays, short plays, poetry, and stuff is in, or will soon be in, 3am Magazine, The Beat, Big Bridge, Dicey Brown, The Edward Society, Eyeshot, The Guardian, InkPot, Locus Novus, McSweeney's, Pindeldyboz, Tattoo Highway, Tin Lustre, άber, Word Riot, Xtant, Yankee Pot Roast, and Zacatecas. He writes the bi-weekly cultural column Pond Scum for Me Three. He is currently working on a novel. (Yeah, right). Email: stevefinbow@yahoo.com