The ice cream truck screams through the docks of New Jersey, while Jessica Jones clings to the fiberglass mascot of Captain Cone perched on top. As the name suggests, he’s a nautically themed soft-serve-man hybrid, grinning down at her with cold dead eyes as she digs her fingers into his waffle cone torso.
The tinkly ice cream jingle is going off right next to her head, and Jessica punches the speakers to make it stop. The metal crumples under her fist and the music distorts but doesn’t die, becoming a sicklier version of itself, but just as loud. And now one of the soft-serve gangsters is leaning out the passenger window to try grabbing her, ridiculous in his sailor hat. And dammit, she did not sign up for this. She has therapy in an hour.
The gangster pulls on her leather jacket and she rolls off the roof, still hanging on by one hand. She thuds into the back of the van, denting the doors. Better in than out. She swings out and kicks, hard, against the back so the metal buckles like tinfoil.
Inside: yup, as she suspected, a dead body in the open freezer among the ice pops, wearing the uniform of the rival company. Mr. Icey got iced, she thinks, propelling herself into the van. If she can make it to the front before the guy in the sailor hat figures she’s inside, she can punch out the driver, take the wheel.
But the driver catches a glimpse of her in the rear-view mirror and yelps; he veers left. He’s underestimated his speed. Dude, ice cream vans aren’t made for drifting. The truck mounts the sidewalk with a tectonic jolt and flips. And flips again. She drops low, tries to maintain her center of gravity, but gravity’s a bastard like that.