Normalized (The Complete Quartet)

by David Bussell

  “Something the matter, Cap?” asked Birdy, who’d sensed my head was elsewhere and given me a THWAP with his slide pointer.

  “Nothing, bro, just a little bushed.”

  “Bushed? Your arch enemy murders fourteen unarmed men and steals enough plutonium to turn this city into aquarium gravel... and you’re bushed?”

  “Yeah about that – doesn’t it strike you as a bit out of place, the whole murdering everyone thing? The Prof can use 100% of his brain – some say even his brain has a brain – and he’s what... shooting people and making bombs now? I don’t know about you, but I expect more from the guy who re-animated a Body Worlds exhibit and assaulted City Hall with plasticized zombies. Doesn’t D’eath owe it to us to set his monocle on something more exotic than just blowing us up?”

  Birdy gave me a look that could have ripened a banana. “You’d prefer D’eath turned gravity upside down then, or battered us with a swarm of mutant kill-hawks?”

  I didn’t say anything, but man, I’d murder for some mutant kill-hawks right about now. Just give me something I can lay my hands on, you know? Something to destroy.

  November 17th

  I was out on patrol with Birdy this morning when the two of us got into this big dumb spat about nothing. We were flying along (well, I was, Birdy was in the harness) when he started bitching me out.

  “Maybe we’d stand a better chance of finding the Professor if we were a little closer to the ground.”

  “Trust me, bro, I got this.”

  Nothing passes me by – eyes like a rogue spy satellite.

  “Well, I can’t see a thing,” he said.

  “What’s the matter, am I going too fast? Did you get a bug in your eye? Straps too tight on the man hammock?”

  “Just set me down, okay? I’m tired of looking like a big baby about to be stork-dropped into the chimney of the world’s unluckiest mom.”

  I hate to hear my brother suffering, so I zoned him out. See, there’s a reason I keep us off the ground. I keep us off the ground because that’s where the Captain Might fans are, and flying over their heads is a sure-fire way not to lose the best part of the day to a hyperventilating mob. Still, I figured what better way to demonstrate that than by giving Birdy what he wanted. Now maybe next time he comes up with the bright idea of playing pedestrian I’ll remind him how we got nailed to the wall today by a horde of starf*ckers clamoring for my phone number on their boobs.

  You might think I’d be flattered by the attention but I know those people don’t give a damn about the real me. All they care about is the superhero, never the man. Somehow it escapes them that I’m a human being, just the same as they are. That my frustrations are their frustrations. That my hopes are their hopes. That my fears are their fears (except for knives, bullets, robot pterodactyls, that sort of thing).

  After we escaped the crush, Birdy demanded I took him back to the station. His mood didn’t improve any once we got there.

  “What the hell is that?” he asked, finger pointed accusingly at the giant bulge in my underpants.

  Well, not my underpants exactly, the ones belonging to the forty-foot tall burnished steel Captain Might statue being installed in the C.H.A.M.P lobby. It formed an archway, legs akimbo, one giant foot planted either side of the building’s entrance. It was a thing of majesty, it really was. The sculptor had captured my looks beautifully, not just my nether regions but my jaw-line too. It was so well defined you could use it for a T-square.

  “People are getting killed and you’re putting up effigies?” said Birdy, all butthurt. “What’s next, a scaled up replica of your junk grafted onto Mount Rushmore?”

  “Jeez. You wanna take the spin out of my office chair too, bro?”

  “What if I don’t want to walk between your legs every time I visit the station? For God’s sake, I can tell which side you dress on!”

  “You don’t like it, don’t look up. No one’s forcing you to eyeball the contents of my gusset.”

  “It doesn’t seem like I have much choice since the person who built the thing was so... generous.”

  “It’s anatomically correct is all. Don’t the people of this city deserve the truth?”

  “Yes, but does every truth need to be so... self evident?” he asked, wincing at the bulge. “And what about the expense? Our budget’s already stretched thinner than that thing’s britches.”

  “And whose fault’s that?” I asked.

  Birdy knew full well that I could put our money problems to bed in a flash if only he’d let me. Give me a couple of fistfuls of coal and I’d crush us up a batch of diamonds that’d see us sitting pretty for the next ten years, but oh no, the boys upstairs put paid to that after the last time I tried doing us a favor. I still don’t see what the big deal is – they called it sending stocks off kilter, upsetting the global economy and almost turning the World Wars into a trilogy – I call it being a team player.[8]

  “There are more important things to be getting on with right now than standing around watching some statue get erected,” said Birdy, instantly regretting his choice of words.

  “Whatever,” I said. “You ask me, I’m not the one blowing things out of proportion here.”

  Birdy stepped into the elevator and stabbed the button for the top floor, giving me such a frown I’m surprised he didn’t catch it in the doors on the way up.

  Note to self: Talk to effigy people about possible Mount Rushmore project.[9]

  November 19th

  Great! (sarcasm). I just found out that Miss Transit – the teleporter gal I turned down for that Officer job – is hitting C.H.A.M.P with a sexual discrimination suit. Her legal counsel are claiming that we’re “actively excluding and working against the interests of women.” Never mind the truth! Never mind that we already have a whole roster of supergals on the payroll![10]

  Miss Transit is also filing a sexual misconduct suit. She claims that during her interview I told her to “Beam me up, hottie,” and touched her boob. What a hot dose of bullsh*t. Okay, technically it is true, but only because she told me she could extend her power to include anyone in physical contact, and if that’s not an invitation then what is?

  I am up to the tip of my dick with this nonsense. As if I don’t have enough to deal with out there, now I have to dodge lawsuits too? What kind of a world are we living in when the People’s Protector needs people protection?[11] I’m not going to put up with this crap, I’ll tell you that. This is slander, pure and simple, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to bend over and take it while some opportunist wind-bag snaps a towel at my ass. Get ready to teleport into a smaller house, lady, because I keep a lawyer on retainer, and he’s a goddamned piranha.[12]

  November 22nd

  Thanksgiving

  If you spent Thanksgiving alone this year, please, please, don’t come bragging to me about it.

  “Use a napkin, not your cape!” Mom shrieked in her thick Armenian accent as I mopped cranberry dip off my chin. “How did I raise such a child?”

  “A napkin? What am I, the Third Earl of Buckinghamshire sitting here in his powdered wig?”

  “You think you are so clever. When do you stop this superhero foolishness and get yourself real job? Your cousin Gary sells real estate now, did you know? Why are you not being more like your Cousin Gary?”

  You mean Cousin Gary who mixed Ambien and coke and threw himself out of a hotel window because he thought he could fly? Cousin Gary who only survived because he landed his foot in the ass of a fly-by cape and pitched the pair of them into a passing dump truck? That Cousin Gary?

  It’s like nothing I do is ever good enough for that woman. I’m the goalie between this city and total annihilation and still she asks when I’m going to get a briefcase and a name plate on a door. Is it just me who puts up with this I wonder? Do the rest of the Captains have to deal with this kind of crap?[13]

  “Can we just be nice to each other today, Mom? I’ve got enough going on right now without you giving me grief.”
>
  “You want to be nice now? Where are you being nice the rest of year, huh? Not here is where. You treat your mother like a strangler!”[14]

  I looked to Birdy for a bit of moral support but he was busy pretending to watch the game over my shoulder. Dad would have thrown me a bone if he was still around; told Mom to pipe down and mind her own. Dad was always in my corner, even when he had every right not to be. Even when I cost him his job as a police officer.

  Capes were the trumpet of doom for Johnny Law. What chance did a guy with a pistol and a nightstick have against a crook who could rip out his spinal column with a thought, or cook his insides like a renegade microwave? Realizing just how redundant cops had become in the face of supervillains, the state of NY put crime-fighting out to tender. That’s how C.H.A.M.P picked up the contract and me and my superhero buddies came to run this town. It wasn’t a popular decision to begin with – truth told, there hadn’t been that big a ruckus in the public sector since the Fire Department automated its HR division and accidentally fired all the Sagittarians. Dad didn’t blame me for getting laid off though, and that’s saying something, because he loved being police. I suppose in his heart he knew the game had gotten too rough for his like. He was right, but that doesn’t stop me feeling bad about it to this day.

  After we’d polished off the pumpkin pie, Birdy mentioned to Mom that he’d met a girl. You should have seen her, she was so excited! She turned that kid out for gossip so hard I’m surprised she didn’t start waterboarding him. I zoned in and out of the interrogation but I did catch that his new squeeze was some braniac academic type he’d met through work. Hopefully this’ll improve his mood some at least. Nothing like a spot of under-the-pants romance to chase the grumps away.

  December 6th

  I’m done playing Where’s Waldo with Professor D’eath. If he’s not going to come out and play I’d just have to find some way of teasing him from his hidey-hole. Being as it’s almost the holidays I hit on the idea of volunteering to throw the switch on the Rockefeller Christmas lights. The Prof could never resist crashing a party, and my gut told me a public appearance on that scale was just what I needed to winkle the guy out.

  Well, it turns out my gut’s full of sh*t (literally if you want to get biological about it). Professor D’eath was a big fat no-show – even his Mandroids stayed away. What a gyp. Enough with cat and mouse crap, dude. Take off your wimple and quit being a bitch.

  Where did that walking erector set get to? I’ve searched the city soup to nuts and nothing. Unless he’s not hiding. Like maybe something happened to him. Ugh, don’t tell me he went and got the Big C off of that plutonium he boosted. I’m going to need him to put up some kind of fight when I find his ass and kick it purple.[15]

  December 31st

  New Year’s Eve

  Despite putting in a month’s worth of double shifts, I was still looking at zero leads on Professor D’eath. Even a state-wide B.O.L.O turned up nothing.[16] I needed a break. D’eath could hang for one night – I had to let off some steam. It’s not easy being a vessel for perfection, you know.

  Tonight I’m going to throw a New Year’s party fit for a fleet of Kardashians. Invitations exclusive to my super-homies, catwalk models and AAA List celebrities.[17] I’m telling you, this bash is going to be the stuff of legends. Everyone knows about my super-speed and super-sight, but tonight they’re gonna see my super-taste. I’m talking Cristal bottle service, tailored gift bags, and Jay Z emceeing the karaoke machine. I’m going to raise the roof on this party. Literally. One-handed! This crib’s about to get hotter than two explosions getting freaky in a volcano.[18]

  Too bad Birdy doesn’t share my enthusiasm. Can you believe he wanted me to cancel the party and concentrate on my job instead? Naturally I filed his request under ‘G’ for ‘Gargle my balls.’ I know he’s only riding me because the press have started making noises about C.H.A.M.P’s performance in the wake of D’eath’s plutonium heist. According to the scandal sheets, the doomsday clock’s ticking and I ought to be pounding the streets day and night until the Professor’s brought to heel. Those hacks had better learn to shut their neck holes. They talk smack about me one more time and I’m going to make balloon animals out of them.

  January 1st

  New Year’s Day

  A gentleman never tells of a stolen kiss from a stranger, but what about when he breaks one off in a real killer piece of ass? And boy, do I mean killer. The name Super-Model mean anything to you? That’s right – she with the body that can stop traffic and bullets – nailed like a church crucifix. Forget about crackers, this is the kind of girl you wouldn’t kick out of bed for eating babies. No doubt about it, with great power comes some great tail.

  Super-Model was in town shilling her new flick.[19] I made sure she got an invite to last night’s party, after all, I’d been wanting to make love on her for years. My eyes landed on her the second she walked in. What a smoke show. Let me tell you, that girl was put together right. Legs like a thoroughbred dressage horse and a set of titties that made you want to stand up and salute. Those things weren’t playing shy either – the cocktail dress she had on plunged so low I could tell what she’d had for lunch.

  I saw her eyes widen as I approached. “Captain Might!” she said, face flushed.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said, champagne flute quivering, “just a bit taken aback.”

  I flashed her my baby blues and whispered in her ear. “Play your cards right and maybe I’ll take you from the front too.”

  KAPOW. Bulletproof she may be, but there’s no resisting them charms.

  Five minutes later we’d stepped off of the balcony of my penthouse and were shedding our clothes over the streets of Manhattan. Getting with another superhero really opens up some doors that way; sex-wise, I mean. There are certain things you just can’t do with a normal, no matter how much you’d like to. It might seem like a nice idea on paper, but take a regular lady to the mile-high club and you’d be exposing her to altitude sickness, frostbite, even brain swelling. Trust me on that one.

  Not Super-Model though. That girl went at it like a champ. We went the whole night long – really let our freak flags fly. By the time we left the Earth’s atmosphere I’d seen her O face all the way through to her Z face. She was up for anything. Honestly, she was so filthy it’s a wonder no one had used their finger to write ‘wash me’ on her back.

  And before you rush to judge me, no, Captain Might is not some woman-hating misogynist, so quit clutching your pearls and get up off your fainting chair. There’s more to romance than rutting, I know that. You think I want to spend the rest of my life drinking tequila shooters out of some stripper’s Caesarean scar? Believe me, I’d love to get serious about somebody one day – a woman who appreciates me for who I really am under this playboy façade. Not another ‘it girl’ with a miniature dog vibrating in her purse like a quivering haggis – a soul mate. Problem is my schedule won’t allow for a proper relationship. What can I say, I’m a busy sexy man. Maybe some day the City won’t need saving and I can devote myself The One, but until that day comes I guess I’m cursed to plow this furrow (begging zero forgiveness for the pun).

  Anyway, last night wasn’t a total success, as Birdy was quick to illustrate. It turned out Super-Model and I had earned some unwanted publicity with our exploits. Apparently our flight through Midtown had put us in front of the Times Square ball drop right before the stroke of midnight. Adults and children gathered for the countdown were treated to the sight of us corkscrewing through the skylike a pair of mating falcons. The crowd were absolutely livid, Birdy said. Lady Gaga just about sh*t.

  The whole thing was beamed live on TV and made the front cover of today’s Unmasked magazine – a rolled-up copy of which Birdy used to wake me up this morning.[20]

  “We’re in the middle of a crisis and you’re making us look like assh*les,” he yelled.

  “Whatever,” I said, rolling over. “This
is what we pay Public Relations people for.”

  I mean, come on. I hadn’t screwed up any worse than I had last New Year – when I got so wasted I belly-flopped into the East River and caused the forced evacuation of ten city blocks – and that story got vanished like a shadow in a power cut. Quit getting your panties in a bunch, bro.[21]

  January 2nd

  Today I had lunch with our P.R. rep, Jules, to see what he could do about mending Unmasked magazine’s hatchet job on me. Jules is a real spin master.[22] He’s the best there is at what he does, but what he does is douchey as hell.