by Baron Sord
Brock scowled at her and said dismissively, “Fuck you, you fat fucking blimp.” He pushed past her to get to Kristy.
Mom Widow stumbled out of his way and yelped, “Be careful!”
Kristy gasped. Any shred of her level-headed composure evaporated instantly, burned away by her K-Cray temper. Now Kristy was beyond pissed. She marched up to Brock and barked, “Watch we’re you’re going, Brock! You almost knocked that woman down!”
“So?” he snorted.
Kristy seethed, “I can’t believe you did that to her! Say you’re sorry!”
“Fuck her,” Brock grunted without even looking. “I came here for you.”
Standing nearby, Pudgy Batman muttered, “You broke my utility belt.”
“Good,” Brock curled a defiant lip.
“Ugh,” Kristy scowled. “This is the problem, Brock!” She motioned at Pudgy.
“What, fat Batman?!” Brock snorted.
“No,” Kristy practically laughed. “You! You’re the problem, Brock!”
“No!” he shouted. “I love you! Can’t you see I’ll do anything to have you back?!”
Kristy folded her arms across her boobs, cocked her hip, and sneered, “Does that include hurting other people?”
“Fuck yeah! I’ll do anything it takes to get you back, babe! Anything!”
“Do you hear yourself?!” Kristy laughed indignantly. “You cheated on me, Brock! Cheated!”
“I don’t care!”
“I do!” Kristy insisted.
“That’s in the past! I’ve changed!”
“In a month?” Kristy snorted.
“Yes!” Brock shouted.
“No you haven’t! You’ll never change, Brock! You’re a selfish asshole! All you care about is you! The way you treat people is disgusting! Ugh! You’re making my physically ill right now! Do you know that?!” She clutched her stomach and grimaced for emphasis. “Go away, Brock. Just go sleep with your slut side piece or whatever you call her.”
“Paige? I broke up with her! We’re done!”
“So are we,” Kristy grumbled. “I broke up with you a month ago! Or did you forget already?!”
“No!” Brock shouted and grabbed Kristy’s arm.
“Let go of me, Brock!” Kristy demanded glaring at his hand.
“NO!” Brock roared.
“I said let go!” Kristy cried stridently, pulling hard. “We’re done, Brock! Done is done!”
Brock’s muscles wouldn’t let go. He growled, “WE’RE NOT DONE UNTIL I SAY WE’RE DONE!”
“Yes we—!”
Crack!
Brock slammed a huge hand across Kristy’s jaw. Her phone went flying and she went spinning into the muttering crowd of convention attendees who were watching the drama unfold. When Kristy was hit, they collectively gasped and their muttering ceased. A heavy silence weighed them down. Nobody could move. They could only stare at Brock in utter shock. The only sounds or movement came from the lonely cars passing by on the distant street.
“Kiiiiiiiiiiii!” Kristy screamed a battle cry as she launched herself out of the crowd at Brock, her fists flailing and her cape flying high behind her.
Brock threw his hands up defensively while backing up, but Kristy had already punched him in the face three times before he managed to block her onslaught of head shots.
“Get him!” a woman in the crowd cheered behind Kristy.
“Show him who’s boss!” another woman said.
“Serves that asshole right!” a third woman snarled.
Kristy didn’t hear them because she was too busy punching Brock the Rock-headed Crock.
And because K-Cray was in the house!
Brock stepped backward off the curb and stumbled back into his precious Harley, inadvertently catching the handle bars in one hand to stop his fall, pulling the forks and front wheel whipping around as he went down and dragged the big bike with him. It hit the asphalt with a metallic bang and the tiny helmet hanging from the handlebars fell off and went bouncing.
The crowd cheered and started clapping.
Kristy ignored them and stood over Brock, fists clenched at her sides, teeth clenched in rage.
Red faced and furious, Brock jumped to his feet and screamed, “YOU’RE FUCKING LUCKY I DON’T HIT WOMEN!”
Kristy’s anger was wiped away by righteous surprise. She blurted in disbelief, “You just did, you stupid idiot!”
Furious, Brock glared at her like he wanted to hit her again.
“Go ahead,” she snarled, her fists back at the ready. “Try it. I dare you.” Kristy did kickbox, but she knew Brock could kill her if he tried. If he did, she’d make him regret it.
“FUCK YOU, CUNT!” Brock roared incoherently, “RAAAAAAARGH!” He lifted his motorcycle onto its tires like it weighed nothing. Threw a leg over the seat and kick-started it with a rattle. The engine fired up and he revved the throttle with several angry twists.
VROOM!
VROOM!
VROOM!
“WE’RE NOT DONE!” Brock barked.
“WE ARE SO DONE!” Kristy shouted over the noise of the motorcycle.
VROOM! Brock revved the throttle while gritting his teeth, “NO WE’RE NOT!”
“YES WE ARE!” Kristy shouted, “YOU JUST CALLED ME THE C-WORD! DON’T EVER COME BACK, YOU ABUSIVE PIECE OF SHIT! I DON’T WANNA SEE YOUR FACE EVER AGAIN!”
VROOM, VROOM! Brock was trying to drown her out because he didn’t like what he was hearing.
“Go!” Kristy shouted and kicked the front tire of the Harley with her boot heel. “GO!”
Growling, Brock backed the motorcycle into the street with his legs. Shouted at a passing car, “MOVE IT!” Revved the engine repeatedly while backing and turning.
VROOM!
VROOM!
VROOM!
When his motorcycle was pointing forward, he shouted, “WE’LL TALK LATER!” He gave Kristy a final grimace as the motorcycle lurched forward and shot into traffic.
“NO WE WON’T!” Kristy shouted after him. “GO AWAY AND NEVER COME BACK!”
Finally, he was gone.
Thank goodness for that.
She sighed in relief. Saw Brock’s tiny helmet sitting upside down on the street. It may’ve been tiny, but it was more than big enough to cover Brock’s brainless numbskull.
Kristy yelled, “I hope you get a ticket for riding without a helmet, asshole!”
He was too far away to hear, but that gave her an idea.
She marched over to the helmet and was about to kick it with the ball of her booted foot and send it skidding down the street. Instead, she squeezed her knees together, squatted down gracefully and picked it up. Then she bashed it repeatedly against the street with both hands, grimacing like a madwoman, imagining it was Brock’s head she was bashing. When she finally had enough, she turned to find the nearest trash can.
Someone in the watching crowd started a slow clap that turned into applause, followed by cheering and vigorous whistling.
Kristy rolled her eyes and pushed past everyone.
She didn’t want the attention.
“You dropped your phone,” Mom Widow said, offering it to Kristy.
“Thank you so much,” Kristy said sincerely, taking it.
“No, thank you,” Mom Widow laughed. “You sure put him in his place!”
“I guess,” Kristy half-smiled before walking away.
When she found a trash can a ways down the concourse, she dropped the scratched-up Skid Lid through the round mouth.
Just then, a mom in a Bat Woman costume and her 9 year old son in a Robin costume emerged from the passing crowd and came walking up to the trash can from the other direction. By the looks of them, neither had seen Kristy’s fight with Brock. The boy held a paper tray with a half-eaten chili dog in one hand, and a jumbo paper drink cup in the other.
Looking sick to his stomach, the Boy Wonder grimaced and whined, “I tried, Mom! I can’t finish it!”
Bat Mom groaned, “I told yo
u it was too much food for you, Liam.”
“I was hungry!” Liam protested.
“For two chili dogs?” Bat Mom grumbled. “Wasn’t one enough?!”
“I was hungry!” Liam insisted.
Bat Mom groaned, “Just… throw away the rest. I don’t want you spoiling your dinner more than you already have.”
“Okaaaaay!” Liam groused and went to toss his food in the trash.
Kristy intercepted Liam and smiled at Bat Mom, “May I?”
“Umm…” Bat Mom hesitated.
“I just want to throw everything away for him,” Kristy said. “It’ll make me feel better. I hate trash.” By trash she meant Brock the Crock.
Liam looked at Kristy.
Kristy smiled at him, “May I?”
Bat Mom said, “I guess it’s okay. Go ahead, Liam.”
Kristy smiled at Liam and held out her hands, “Can I throw that away for you?”
He shrugged and handed the chili dog and drink to her with a smile and said, “You’re pretty.”
“Thank you,” Kristy smiled back.
She turned to the trash can and up-ended the paper chili dog tray into Brock’s helmet, which lay upside down inside the can. Chili slopped into the bowl of the helmet and oozed wetly. Kristy pulled the top off the drink, which was half-full of dark brown soda, and poured it and the ice splattering into the helmet, making a soupy brown mess that looked something like vomit.
“Good riddance,” Kristy snarled at the helmet and the hot dog, which was made of pig.
Stupid pigs.
Liam grinned at Kristy, “Good riddance.”
“Good riddance is right,” Kristy snickered back.
Bat Mom tittered uncertainly at the strange scene.
“Thank you,” Kristy said to her. “I really enjoyed that.”
“I can see that,” Bat Mom smiled.
Kristy waved at them and walked away.
Her cheek was throbbing where Brock’d hit her. She needed to go someplace to check her face in a mirror and collect herself before the tears came. She had the rest of the day to get through here at the show and she wasn’t gonna do it with red and dry crying eyes.
Stupid effing Crock!
Ugh!
—: Chapter 5 :—
T-minus 20 minutes until super powers.
Around 1:20pm, I made my way slowly back toward the Crash Comics booth feeling a combination of defeat and hope. Defeat because I had spent the last three hours hitting up all the other small press publishers asking about penciling jobs. Nobody had any. Not for me, anyway.
I felt hope because I was about to ask Lady Liberty out for dinner. There was always a slim chance she would say yes.
As I got closer to the booth, my heart hammered in anticipation. There was Mistress Victory in her green two-tone tights. S&M was right next to her in black. Both were talking to fans.
Where was Lady Liberty?
I didn’t see her anywhere.
The closer I got, the more I deflated.
She wasn’t here.
Damn.
Oh well.
At least Jeff Strickland was.
He wore baggy plumber’s jeans and an oversized Crash Comics T-Shirt. He was busy pulling new copies of comics out of a box to replenish the stacks on the tables and in the spinner racks.
Knowing that Jeff never remembered me, I caught his attention and said, “Hey. You’re Jeff, right?”
“Yeah. Who wants to know?” Same old Jeff. He slapped a stack of Mistress Victory #4 onto the table.
I held out my hand. “I’m Doug. Doug Moore. I’m a penciler. I showed you my samples last year.”
Jeff shook his head, “I don’t need any pencilers.”
“Oh, uh, did Lady Liberty tell you I was going to stop by and talk to you?”
“You tell me.” Jeff whipped out a stack of S&M issue #6 and added them to the table, then dug his arm into another box and grabbed more comics like I was wasting his time.
I sighed, “Did she talk to you or not?”
“Yeah, I talked to her. She didn’t tell me about no pencilers named Don.”
“Doug. Doug Moore.”
“Whatever. You any good?” His eyes landed on my portfolio.
I almost said I was better than last year, but there was no point reminding him. Then I remembered what Lady Liberty had said and I repeated her words, “I’ve got my own unique style.”
Jeff pursed his lips and snorted, partially impressed. He wagged his hand. “Lemme see your book.”
I unzipped my portfolio and handed it to him.
He flipped through the pages in five seconds, barely pausing to look. “You’re unique, I’ll give you that. But I don’t think I can use you for any of my books. We have a certain house style, and it ain’t yours.” He wasn’t being a dick. He was being honest. Slightly harsh, but honest. “Maybe you should go over to Fantagraphic. They like unique.”
“I did.”
“Then why’re you talking to me?”
“Because they want finished books. I just have samples.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, kid. Finish a book. Talk to Fantagraphic.” It wasn’t exactly words of encouragement.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “You’re right. Thanks anyway.”
“Any time, kid.” He was already arm-deep in another box of comics, pulling out new issues, his back to me, his ass crack showing because his oversized T-shirt wasn’t oversized enough.
I scowled and looked away.
So much for that.
No art job and no date with Lady Liberty.
Total bust.
I loitered around the booth for another few minutes, pretending to look at the new comics. The truth was, I was hoping Lady Liberty would show.
“You going to buy anything or what?” Jeff asked five minutes later.
With what I paid for rent every month, on top of my car payments and student loans, and everything else, I lived a tightly budgeted lifestyle. I was careful about which comics I bought, and kept my monthly pull list at Villainous Lair Comics & Gaming to a bare minimum.
I sighed, “Sorry, man. I’m broke.”
“Ain’t we all,” Jeff chuckled. “Hey, you do any coloring? I could use a colorist.”
“Not really. I mean, my colors aren’t any good.”
Jeff nodded, “I hear ya.”
What else was there to say?
Screw it.
I had to ask.
“Hey, Jeff?”
“Yeah?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know Lady Liberty’s real name, would you?”
He chuckled, “You a stalker?”
“No,” I scoffed.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You and everybody else.”
“I swear, man. I’m not a stalker.” What was I supposed to do now? I couldn’t hang out here without proving his point. Then something ridiculous occurred to me, so I said it. “She’s not, you know, not a real superhero, is she?”
He laughed, “What are you talking about, kid? Course she’s not. Nobody is. You, uh, you know that, right?” He looked at me like I might be stupid or insane.
“Yeah, I know,” I said somewhat defensively. “What I mean is, when I asked her name earlier, she wouldn’t tell me. Like it was her secret identity or something. Then she got all weird.”
“Course she did,” he grinned like the reason was obvious.
“Yeah, but why?”
“She doesn’t want anyone knowing her name.”
“I know. But why not?”
Jeff rolled his eyes and leaned over the table.
I leaned in.
He whispered, “Because of her other job.”
“What other job?”
“She works at Flashbacks over by the Sports Arena.”
“Where?”
“I mean the Casino Center. Used to be the Sports Arena. They changed the name back in oh-four,” he shrugged. “Old habits, you know.”
“Wait, she works at the Casi
no Center?”
“No,” he chuckled. “At Flashbacks. The strip joint. How do you think I met her? Anyway, she’s a stripper.”
“A what?”
He snorted, “You don’t know what a stripper is? What planet are you from, kid?”
I smirked, “Yeah, I know what a stripper is. But… I don’t know… she draws comics and she’s really good.”
“Why can’t strippers draw comics?” He frowned like he was a feminist and my question made me a thoughtless misogynist.
I smirked, “Okay, she can be the first. Unless there are other stripper pencillers I don’t know about?”
“None that I know of,” Jeff chortled. “And I know quite a few.”
I smirked, “Strippers or stripper-pencillers?”
“Ya got me, kid,” he chuckled guiltily.
I grinned, “Are you sure Lady Liberty isn’t a real superhero? Because a stripper who can draw comics as good as her sure sounds like a superhero to me.”
Jeff laughed, “I suppose you’re right.”
I glanced over at the stack of Lady Liberty comics on the table. “So that’s really her book? And she does all the art? I mean, she’s not just some model you hired to pose as the character?”
“Nope. She’s the real deal. Does the entire book herself. The art, the writing, colors too. Lettering even. Doesn’t want some rookie letterer ruining her panel flow with bad speech balloon placement. Kid’s got talent. Kind of like the daughter I never had.” Jeff looked like he’d never been laid, let alone had a daughter. But he clearly meant well. “Anyway, she knew who I was when I was at Flashbacks a while back. Who the hell knows who I am, you know?” He laughed. “Anyway, she asked me if I’d take a look at her work. I thought she was trying to bilk me for tip money. Turned out she was damn serious. I told her there was no money in comics and she was better off stripping. She said she wanted to do comics. So I published her book, you know? Told her to work the Con this year to promote it. She said she’d never been to one before. Can you believe that?”
“That a stripper has never been to a comic convention?”
His eyes suddenly saucered. “And don’t you go stalking her at her job! She’ll kill me if she finds out I told you!”
“Don’t worry,” I smirked. “Strip joints aren’t my scene.” It was true. I had never been to one.
