Hero Force United Boxed Set 1

by Baron Sord

  I said to Brianna, “Don’t tell his wife. Don’t tell your parents. Don’t tell anyone. Just keep your mouth shut about this. As a favor to me. And don’t tell anyone about me either. Can you promise me that?”

  Brianna rolled her eyes, “Why? You’re a hero!”

  “I don’t think the cops will see it that way.” Or Max Garrison, the San Diego District Attorney. With any luck, neither he nor Justine Escala would ever find out about tonight. I said to Brianna, “I need to go.”

  “Fine. Can I have a hug first?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Don’t be such a prude. Just hug me already.” She threw her arms wide.

  With a sigh, I hugged her and patted her back jarringly — on purpose, of course.

  She pressed herself against me tightly.

  Trying to ignore the sensation of her pressing her surprisingly full breasts against my chest, I patted her back more vigorously and released my arms before saying, “Can I go now?”

  “Sure,” she said as she pulled away and—

  Slip!

  She yanked my mask off my head. The slippery lycra came right off.

  I frowned and pushed her away. “Why’d you do that, Brianna?!”

  Holding my mask, she gasped and backed up, “Oh-ah! My-ah! Gaaawd! You are gorge!”

  “That was fucked up, Brianna! Give my mask back!”

  “Not unless you take it from me!” Her bright blue eyes flashed and she pursed her full lips before spinning around to run down the dark street, giggling as she went. Girl could run.

  Did I realize Brianna was flirting with me hard?

  Yes.

  Did I notice she wore tight leggings that revealed exquisite hips, long slender legs, and flashed an ass that wouldn’t quit?

  Yes.

  Did I go after her?

  Not on your life.

  I could always order another ninja mask, but there was no way I could date beautiful blonde Brianna. Not after murdering her neighbor in front of her.

  Super powers, huh?

  —: Chapter 35 :—

  Without my mask to hide my face, I jogged 4 miles back to the house in Bankers Hill at a normal running pace, praying the whole way I wouldn’t get stopped by a cop because nobody except a criminal went jogging in black boots and black clothes this early in the morning.

  Thankfully, I didn’t see any cops.

  Took me maybe 16 minutes to run home, going maybe 15mph the entire way. That meant 4-minute miles. Not quite World Record pace, but I’d like to see any world class athlete do four miles in 16 minutes. I was pretty sure it had never been done.

  Back in Bankers Hill at the Beaks’ house, I went through the side gate and into the guest house to change into proper jogging clothes. I still had to get Arnold’s Prius where I’d left it in La Jolla not far from where I’d first seen Douche’s Porsche.

  Arnold hadn’t been with me tonight because he was too tired to go out for another long night of helping people in the middle of a work week, so he’d stayed home to sleep. In two hours, he’d need to drive his car to SPAWAR.

  I needed to go get it for him.

  When I reached into the pockets of my cargo pants to empty them, I found Porsche Douche’s money.

  Counted it.

  Eighteen crisp $100 bills.

  My first thought was to give it to the homeless woman, the one Douche had hit. I thought through the logistics of going back to Scripps, and dodging Coffee Cop and any other cops who might have arrived to search the hospital and surrounding grounds for me while I looked for her.

  I knew that finding the homeless woman inside the hospital would be difficult. It wasn’t like she’d be sitting in a public area like a waiting room. She’d be in a private room recovering somewhere. Sure, I could go to Scripps in normal clothes without my mask on, and ask around, but I doubted I could talk my way to finding the homeless woman without raising the suspicion of the nurses, who would no doubt notify the cops I was asking. Nor could I simply leave the money for the homeless woman. What was I going to tell the nurses? Please give this $1,800 to the homeless woman who got hit by the Porsche tonight? Talk about suspicious. They would assume I had hit her, and there would surely be security video of my maskless face talking to the nurses.

  I couldn’t go in wearing a mask because — oh wait — Brianna had taken mine. I needed to order another one. Or borrow Arnold’s.

  There was a knock at the guest house door.

  I opened it. “Hey, Arnold.”

  Bleary eyed, he held his Glock at his side and said, “You set the alarm off when you went through the side gate.”

  “Sorry. Were you asleep?”

  “For once. Where’s your mask?”

  “Long story. I need to order another one.”

  “Where’s my car?”

  “That’s part of the long story,” I smirked.

  “May as well tell it,” he said as he pushed past me and sat down on my bed.

  I told him everything about Porsche Douche, the homeless woman, Brianna, and Karambit Kayhill.

  Arnold gasped, “You killed him?”

  “He was trying to kill me,” I said guiltily. “It was an accident.”

  Arnold smirked, “Good. That prick wasn’t accidentally trying to kill you or that Brianna babe.”

  “No,” I shook my head.

  “He deserved it,” Arnold said with finality. “What else?”

  I showed him Porsche Douche’s money. “What should I do with this?”

  “Keep it,” he said without hesitation.

  “I can’t. It’s not my money. It should go to the homeless woman, not me. She needs it way more than I do.”

  Arnold sneered, “Do me a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Stop acting like you’re Saint Stupid for just one second. Just one.”

  I chuckled, “Who?”

  “Saint Stupid. I mean, listen to you! Name one doctor, nurse, EMT, cop, or firefighter who works free.”

  “Doctors Without Borders.”

  Arnold rolled his eyes, “They’re a charity. They take donations. Donations are money. Think of this $1,800 as a donation to the Doug charity.”

  I snorted, “I’m not a charity, and that old woman needs the money more than I ever will.”

  “Are you insane?” he laughed. “She’d be dead if it wasn’t for you! And it’s not even her money! It’s Porsche Asshole’s money!”

  “It shouldn’t be,” I grumbled.

  “Tell me something. How many lives has that homeless woman saved lately? And don’t count how many kittens she’s saved. Human lives. How many?”

  I shrugged uncomfortably, “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll take a stab in the dark. We’ll even narrow it down to the last two weeks since you got your powers. My guess is, she’s saved zero lives, Doug. Zero. How many have you saved?”

  “That’s not the point,” I grumbled.

  “Isn’t it? How many, Doug?”

  I sighed, “How many lives have I saved?”

  “Yup,” he nodded confidently.

  “Let’s see, starting with that Superman dude under the Cadillac at the convention center, and those two kids in the car fire, and their mom, four. But technically, I don’t think Superman was going to die, and Lady Liberty pulled out one of the kids herself, so that makes three. Then there’s—”

  “That was forever ago! Just guess a total since you got your powers!”

  I sighed, “I don’t know. All included, maybe 20 people?”

  Arnold nodded, “20 people who are alive because you saved them. 21 if you count Old Homeless tonight. Oh, wait. 22 if you count Brianna. How much have they paid you, Doug?”

  “It’s not about the money,” I snorted.

  “Fine. It’s not about the money. But riddle me this, Saint Stupid, if you don’t eat, how many people are you gonna save if you’re too hungry to move?”

  “I’m not broke, Arnold,” I said
sternly, knowingly dodging the question. “And I’m not starving.”

  “Not yet you aren’t. And why do you keep borrowing my car to help people? Why don’t you buy your own? Or just run everywhere?”

  Irritated, I frowned, “Because running burns too many calories and it’s slower and I can’t afford car payments right now. If you don’t want me borrowing yours, I’ll—”

  “Hello! Saint Stupid! You can use my car! It’s not about my car! You’re a charity, Doug! Accept a freaking donation already! Starting with this $1,800 from Porsche Asshole!”

  “Porsche Douche,” I corrected.

  “WHATEVER! TAKE HIS FREAKING MONEY!”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “While you’re at it, go get my car so you can drive me to my job so I can afford for you to keep borrowing my car for free because I’m paying for it! Nothing in life is free, Doug. Not even helping people. Even Saint Stupid has to eat. That’s you, in case you forgot.”

  “I know,” I groaned.

  “I mean, who fed all those saints in the Bible? God? Hell no!” Arnold cackled. “It was all the poor people they helped! Now that I think about it, name me one church that refuses donations!”

  I grumbled. “Can we be done so I can go get your car?”

  “Can you stop being Saint Stupid and take Porsche Asshole’s money already? That old homeless woman is gonna be fine because you took her to the hospital where they will feed her and give her medical care paid for by other people’s moneeeey, Doug! Freaking money, money, money!”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Keep the freaking money. I’m going back to bed.” Arnold stood and went back to the main house.

  I changed out of my ninja clothes and put on shorts, running shoes, and a random T-shirt. Filled a water bottle, strapped on one of my old digital watches, and went for an 11-mile jog to La Jolla to get Arnold’s Prius. Ran the stopwatch the entire way. Made it in 39 minutes and 10 seconds. I had to “run” more than a few red lights on foot so I could set a World Record pace of 11 consecutive 3-minute and 30-second miles. I would’ve gone faster, but I didn’t want to be too obvious.

  When I finished my run in La Jolla and finally sat down in Arnold’s car, my water bottle was empty, I was dying of thirst, and literally starving. I had never been this hungry ever. My stomach knotted painfully. Yes, painfully, which surprised me because of my super powers. Apparently, I was “super” hungry.

  First stop on my way home?

  Donut Star.

  They were already open and their doughnuts were to die for when they were fresh.

  Yes, I kept Porsche Douche’s $1,800. Broke the first hundred on two dozen assorted Donut Star doughnuts.

  Arnold was right. Food wasn’t free.

  While I sat at one of the red wooden booths inside and ate doughnuts, I pounded cup after cup of tap water courteously provided by the clerk. The entire time, I couldn’t help but think about Brianna. She was only slightly too young for my tastes, but only slightly.

  Too bad I had met her over a murder.

  I needed to find a better way to meet women.

  On the bright side, I could use Porsche Douche’s “donation” to cover my food bills for a few weeks. No, make that two weeks — if I stretched the money. Who was I kidding? At the rate I was eating protein, $1,800 might only last me a single week.

  Had to feed the beast.

  Namely me.

  —: Chapter 36 :—

  285.

  That was what Arnold’s bathroom scale showed when I stood on it a few days later. None of the added weight was fat. I was ripped and all of it appeared to be super-powered muscle, but 285 pounds?

  I was huge.

  Smiling to myself, I walked downstairs to eat breakfast.

  Arnold was standing at the kitchen island pouring milk into a bowl of Lucky Charms. “Are you getting taller or am I getting shorter?”

  “I’m getting taller. Unless door frames everywhere have gotten lower. And ceilings.”

  He chuckled at that. “You’re a fricking giant. What are you now? Six-one? Six-two?”

  “Six-three. And a half,” I added.

  “Geez, you’ve grown five inches?”

  “Closer to six.” Short of an NBA game, everywhere I went, I was one of the tallest guys around.

  “How big is your dick getting?”

  I laughed, “Uhhh… Do you really want to know?”

  “Asshole!” he laughed jealously. “No wonder you have all the babes trying to sleep with you. Studly and a superhero who saves lives? I can hear their panties drop whenever you walk by.”

  If the ladies only knew… I was a killer.

  Not in a cool way.

  I pulled a plastic container of pre-washed spinach out of the fridge and started munching on spinach leaves right out of the box.

  Arnold asked, “What’s with all the spinach you’ve been eating, Popeye?”

  “Magnesium.”

  “To make you stronger?”

  Chewing, I said, “Sort of. More like resilience.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Magnesium is a key component in a lot of ultra-strong metal alloys. If I had to guess, I think my body might be integrating it into my bones, muscles, and skin. It’s the only scientific explanation I can think of for how tough my body is getting.”

  Any residual pain from any of my dozens of nightly bumps and bruises were always gone by morning. Technically, I never bruised. Occasionally, I did briefly welt or get red marks, but that was it. Any aches or pains from the more severe injuries were usually gone after a single night of rest. If they weren’t, they were completely gone within 24 hours.

  Arnold shook his head, “I still can’t believe that Karambit guy didn’t cut your neck open the other night. Those things are super sharp.”

  “Tell me about it. He cut me right across the throat. Yet not a scratch.”

  “Crazy, right?”

  I grinned, “Maybe you should start eating spinach for breakfast to build up your resilience, instead of Lucky Charms.”

  He covered his bowl protectively, “Keep yer hands off me Lucky Charms!” Arnold said in an Irish brogue. “They’re magically delicious, don’tcha know!”

  “But they’re junk food,” I observed.

  “Tis the only junk food I have left!” It was true. Arnold was eating much better lately.

  I chuckled, “Have you weighed yourself recently?”

  “Yes! I’ve already lost nine pounds from all the running around! There’s no way your taking me Lucky Charms! I’ve earned ’em, don’tcha know!”

  I laughed and said nothing more on the subject.

  He had earned them and definitely deserved them.

  —: o o o :—

  A week later, I burned through the last of Porsche Douche’s $1,800. Spent almost every penny of it on food. What little I had left over went to new clothes. New as in whatever I could find at Goodwill that fit my 6’3” frame with some room to spare. I had no idea when I’d stop growing. Would I top out at 7 feet? 8 feet? 10? 50? 100?

  500?

  Never?

  That would be awful. At some point, I would become larger than the planet, and I’d have to live like Galactus and go around the universe eating other planets to survive.

  No, assuming I needed to continue breathing oxygen, I’d die long before then. I’d either breathe in all the available oxygen on Earth, poisoning the atmosphere with more carbon dioxide than the planet’s plants could possibly process, or starve to death from lack of food (after eating up every last plant, animal, and person — because everyone did desperate things when they were literally starving to death), or die of thirst after drinking up every available body of fresh water. That would be followed by a yellow rainstorm, the likes of which the world had never seen.

  I didn’t want to think about it.

  Hopefully when the creator’s of the green eclipse had given me my powers, they’d had more sense than that. One thing was
for sure, they hadn’t given me any money to fund my super-heroics. After blowing through Porsche Douche’s wad of $1,800 on food and clothes, I had zero dollars left for rent.

  Arnold told me to skip it this month.

  I said no way.

  He insisted.

  I wasn’t taking no for an answer. Over the course of the next week, I did one of the most painful things I could imagine. Started selling some of my choicest comics from my collection, some which I’d had since grade school. Put them up on eBay (while at work, of course — when else was I going to do it?). It was the only way I could make enough money to pay Arnold.

  I was that desperate.

  First to go was my sealed and graded copy of The Walking Dead #1. I had bought it off the shelf on a whim back in 2003 when I was in middle school, and had read it a few times before bagging it. A few years ago, I’d had my friend at Villainous Lair Comics & Gaming send it to CGC to have it professionally graded and locked away in plastic. It’s CGC score was only 9.1, but putting it on eBay started a bidding war that topped out at $900. That was a hefty profit of $897.05 on the $2.95 cover price I’d paid for it — less California State sales tax and the cost of shipping — but I’d burn through that amount of money on rent and groceries in mere days.

  As the PayPal payments for my comics came in, I transferred them straight to Arnold. He reluctantly accepted them to cover my rent, but made me promise to ask for it back if I needed cash for food or anything else essential.

  I reluctantly agreed while counting the days until my next paycheck deposited in my account.

  If my life were a comic book, instead of wrestling with money troubles like I was, I would simply have to kick the ass of some muscled numbskull named THE BANK BREAKER. After beating him senseless and hauling him off to jail, I would receive a hefty $250,000 reward from the FBI or whoever prosecuted elusive super criminals. No more money troubles for me!