Always one to pursue useless knowledge wherever he can find it in a seemingly never-ending quest to achieve the improbable and downright unlikely status of modern-day Renaissance man, Mark Bittmann has indulged his desire to never be lost in any conversation, by developing an arcane understanding of things of little consequence or import while maintaining his alleged status as a small fish in a small pond.
As long as his self-indulgent whim is catered to, he manages to sustain the facade of someone under the misperception that others care about what he thinks. With a ubiquity normally reserved for greenhouse gasses, he chases his random and inconsequential thoughts with all the tenacity of a banana peel. This is his life, his curse, and his twisted and maniacal way of impressing the ladies.
There you are minding your own business, walking down Flatbush Avenue and enjoying the winter day. The local children have engaged themselves in a snowball fight and the smell of a pizzeria greets your nose and entices your stomach. You round a corner, take a shortcut down an alleyway and while looking up to marvel at what appears to be the Avengers Quinjet flying overhead, you see smoke billowing out from the cabin and surmise that its inhabitants may be engaged in a struggle as it suddenly appears to veer off its trajectory at supersonic speed. Upon hearing a whistling sound, you realize that something or someone has indeed fallen out of the Quinjet and it is not only coming down fast, it's going to land nearby. With a clank, a bounce, another clank and a sound akin to that of a decelerating round trash can lid sent spinning on its side like a top, it lands a few paces away. Recognizing the pattern emblazoned on it from daily life and the object itself from photos in the Daily Bugle, it can only be the one and only shield of Captain America lying at your feet.
What in the hell are you supposed to do now? There aren't a whole lot of objects in museums, much less on the planet that call for some sort of specialized protocol in their handling. The smart move is to stash it real quick and consider your options. So you gather up a suitably sized piece of nondescript cardboard to enclose it and make a mad dash for your apartment overlooking Central Park, making sure to take a cab instead of risking the curiosity of the denizens of the New York City subway system. It's amazingly light and you keep checking to see if it has in fact fallen out of the makeshift container you cobbled together all the while downplaying the stress the safeguarding of a national symbol of liberty evidently induces in non-superpowered individuals.
OK, you made it home safely, no one noticed you schlepping the thing up to your pad except the wino you nearly trampled while cutting through another alley, the doorman (who, fortunately, is paid to mind his own business) and that nosy old bat next door. She evidently figured it was just a larger example of the seemingly endless series of pizzas you've brought home and devoured because she once again felt it necessary to inquire as to just when the cold day in hell is scheduled for you to finally marry.
Whew! You have managed to keep the secret of your life for several perilous big city blocks and you wonder move to make next? Knowing that merely possessing such an item is a highly dangerous endeavor to undertake, you proceed to hide it under the sofa until you come up with a plan for it. You have checked it thoroughly for anything remotely resembling a homing device or transmitter and reason that the placement of such a thing would probably throw off its balance, making it tough to adhere to it's instinct of returning to the throwing hand of Star Spangled Avenger like a boomerang.
Speaking of the good Captain, where is he? He and his fellow Avengers should have been all over your apartment like a cheap suit by now. What gives? Homing device or not, the computational resources of Earth's Mightiest Heroes certainly must allow for weighing the probabilities of where it must have landed, given information like the location, direction and speed the Quinjet was traveling and the data from the flight recorder and onboard camera system they undoubtedly possess. Not to mention the miracles performed with observational satellites nowadays. Surely they must have a way of triangulating a likely landing radius. After ascertaining that it's merely a manner of asking S.H.I.E.L.D. to cough up the data on the typical comings and goings of everyone in the neighborhood on any given day and the next thing you know Iron Man is touching down on the roof with his onboard scanners and the Vision is phasing in and out of every flat and floor in the building in their search for one of the greatest man-made weapons in the galaxy. Something big must have occurred for them to not have swooped in and retrieved it for it's owner. Maybe they were shunted off to another dimension or something. Nothing on the news mentioning the fate of the Quinjet, only that it was last seen billowing smoke and breaking the sound barrier over Manhattan earlier. Therefore you determine that it is your duty to see that it ends up where you trust it will be in the best hands for the present. Time to bite the bullet and deliver it yourself.
It would probably be best to strap it to your back like you've seen Captain America do in the photos, throw on a suitably baggy sweater or long coat to cover the extra bulk and hope no one you are acquainted with notices that you seem little stoop-shouldered and extra-large today. Now is not the time for back-slapping by any stretch of the imagination, so you had better slip out of the neighborhood and into an area of town in which you are a relative stranger to begin your quest of delivering the goods.
So you sack up your balls, throw caution to the wind and proceed to midtown Manhattan via the relatively discreet comfort of a cab. The cabbie makes you nervous as he recounts for you the shenanigans between Spider-Man and the Vulture he witnessed earlier, reminding you that every two-bit costumed player in the city would just about kill for the item you are carrying. Apparently the fear induced by the specious maneuvering capabilities of your driver is secondary to the thought of one of the city's spandex-clad exhibitionists impeding your progress in getting the shield into the proper hands.
You have the cabbie stop, as he has been proceeding at a snail's pace for the last few blocks and you can see your destination in front of you anyway. May as well hoof it the rest of the way to the building you know so well. You are certain you will be welcomed there with open arms and well protected, immune to any who might question your deed. You begin to fantasize about the riches and rewards certain to await your delivery of this most valued of packages. Maybe as a result of your efforts, you will finally move up in the system and be recognized as a valuable contributor to the cause. You fantasize about the leader of your country promoting you from emissary to full-fledged spy upon realizing that your skills are more suited to those of covert nature. A sly grin crosses your face as you say "hello" to the assistant greeting visitors and proceed to enter the depths of the Latverian Embassy, wondering if the good doctor is in town.
