"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players". - Jacques, from "As You Know It" by William Shakespeare.

ACT I

I, Elisa Maza, a New York City police detective, had a passion for acting since age eight. At P.S. #143 I auditioned for a Wizard of Oz play based on the film, not the L. Frank Baum books I cherished. Since I had a goody-two-shoes reputation, everyone expected me as Dorothy or Glinda. No way, I wanted to be The Wicked Witch of the West. At showtime, my parents Peter and Diane, little brother Derek and baby sister Beth were in the audience.

"I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too," was recited with a spine-tingling cackle and elicited audience laughs. The sticky, smelly, green makeup was no obstacle.

I'd remained being an amateur thespian all the way to the present. Sally, my blonde alter-ego, comprised a large percent of my undercover career. She collared Thomas Brod but Tony Dracon was busted by mirror universe-Elisa. Those collars were fun as hell.

In 2017, both an oversized caseload and an unfilled quota weren't fun. My organized partner, Detective Matt Bluestone, shared the weight. Nevertheless, when a slew of recent subway robberies occurred, he and I volunteered.

I also knew a magnificent clan of seven gargoyle warriors; sentient beings who transformed into stone by day, defended Manhattan by night. When informed of the sting, their assistance was offered and accepted.

Many commuters were on a Saturday night in late September, ideal for Sally to loiter. Hours passed with my blonde wig affixed and baggy clothes concealing my physique. Two dumb Port Authority officers who mixed up our colors of the day briefly confronted me. After more bite-free hours I was about to call it until my personal space was invaded. Curtain up. Spotlight on Sally.

"You spare some change, lady. I'm trying to pull myself through medical school." 'Moe' said, a bald guy wearing glasses.

"Here…here you go," I stammered, handed him cash and then bumped into 'Larry.' "What do you want?"

"Oh, you know, the usual: good education, high paying job," Larry answered, wearing hoop earrings.

"But we'll settle for a first date," 'Curly' and his hairdo sneaked in.

His innuendo made me squeamish. I was a martial artist, not Bruce Lee-experienced to be any match for three or maybe more men.

Another subway arrived. I leapt in thru its parted doors to catch my breath while the train took off. A construction worker nodded at me as I sat and prepared to call Matt and the gargoyles about those stooges. But I gasped upon glancing to my left at their entering the car with heavy weaponry. How they magically teleported into the train was no matter.

"Folks, we're collecting for a worthy cause," Moe announced like a carnival barker, but with an automatic weapon.

"Yeah, so give till it hurts!" Larry said. Curly and Moe gestured open laundry-sacks to passengers.

As the train emerged from the tunnel and while folks gave up valuables, I whispered via my gliding allies. "Four cars in, three heavily-armed perps, proceed with caution."

"Copy, we're airborne en route. Brooklyn out." The beaked, second-in-command gargoyle had police officer potential.

The three antagonists' robbery inched closer to Sally, to me. Soon everyone heard a thunderous thump on the roof, but I knew precisely what caused it. Goliath promised that he would always be there for me.

Part of the roof was peeled wide open to reveal the darkened sky, freaking out everyone aboard. Larry and Moe unleashed gunfire. The arm of Goliath speedily yanked Moe's coat with him still attached to outside. Another section was peeled away. Larry got twitchy and shot through that fresh opening. I heard a pained holler from Brooklyn but kept faith he wasn't fatally wounded.

A split second after Larry ceased fire, Goliath pulled him straight out. Big Guy hopped into the car with his back to me and to stealthy Curly, who suddenly pressed a gun against his back.

"Tough luck, handsome," Curly grunted.

His overconfidence allowed me to full-on knock that weapon to the ground. Goliath took advantage of my save and plowed Curly into the door, rendering him unconscious.

"Tough luck, indeed," Goliath victoriously quipped.

The passengers screamed, "Don't come near me. Stay away, please! No, stay back," rather than applauding,

"We've still got a little P.R. problem," Brooklyn casually said.

It was a relief to see Brooklyn alive and resting head in hand while Angela patched him up. Little Lexington and big Broadway looked on. The stalwart Goliath also ignored the public outcry and faced me while I moved closer.

"Thank you," his voice resonated through an adorable grin.

While I trusted his ability from the sidelines Goliath still showed me gratitude! So when we embraced I responded, "Hey, nobody messes with my best friend!"

"We'll be in touch." Goliath somberly eased me away, likely upset by ingrates more fearful of him than armed criminals. Big Guy departed through the roof hole.

"Matt, we've got three perps in custody," I radioed while the gargoyles lifted off before the tunnel.

"We're all ready and waiting for you, here. Bluestone out."

I cuffed unconscious-Curly. "Now you'll get tons of dates in prison, asshole."

"Pardon me. You're a police officer?" A blonde female, rocking a nineties-headband and a seventies-suit, asked me.

"Yes, I am," I displayed my badge with I.D. to the crowd.

"Well, then I've an identification to show you," blondie snootily said while holding an I.D. wallet open in my face. It read, 'Margot Yale, Assistant District Attorney, Manhattan.' "Explain why the hell you were cuddling that monster!"

"Holy fucking shit," the only answer I had.

END ACT I