So imagine being in the middle of all those transformations. If I first thought that being the sole victim for their heroic practice sessions entitled me to monetary compensation, getting all blinded and brain-damaged from Simultaneous Heroic Combustion pretty much secured my eligibility. I mean, seriously, how many other regular people out there had to be subjected to that, once, twice a week? Zero. I counted. Zero.
Within seconds the air cleared, and it was safe for me to open my eyes again. Sure enough, instead of four impressive and dangerous superheroes standing around me, there were four teenagers in urban gear all straightening their clothes and patting their hair and all that. Calais was Peter. Miss Pyro was Wade. Spirit Wire was Althea. Freddie was, uh, Freddie. They exchanged relieved grins, with Wade turning around and waving at us to follow her.
"Oh, you guys are gonna like the deep dish pizza,” she said, adjusting her bag over her shoulder. “It's totally awesome."
Peter held my hand as we followed them out of the crumbling underground subway. As we walked through one tunnel after another, our voices echoing up and down the damaged area, I noticed the remains of balloons littering nearly entire platforms and train tracks. The Sentries were expected to come around later to clean up the place and then secure it from accidental visitors outside. These tunnels used to be the Trill's fake hideout. Now the heroes used them for practice, and the area was completely blocked from the rest of Vintage City.
See, in my world of unexpected superheroes and supervillains, we never had the benefit of high-tech headquarters, hideouts, and training whachamacallits that you always see in superhero comic books. Hell, no. We had to use what was there, namely, Vintage City's crumbling urban landscape. I guess we should've been grateful because being forced to make do pretty much taught everyone to be good in improvisation. I mean, seriously, helium monsters to whack at for practice rescue missions? Who'da thunk?
Anyway, the heroes had a small collection of “practice areas” all over. There were a couple of abandoned warehouses near the city's southern border that they'd taken over with the mayor's permission. There was this old, old, run-down apartment building that was this close to being condemned. Yeah, they got permission to use that, too. Of course, the kicker was that with me being their prized “victim,” I'd be bound and gagged and left helpless in some choice spot somewhere in these hulking safety hazards. Half the time, I just wondered when the roof would cave in on me as I lay there, completely immobilized, while they all fought their way through all kinds of obstacle courses set up by the Sentries.
It's good to be appreciated, ain't it? By the way, my family knew that I'd agreed to help with superhero practice missions. What they didn't know was in what capacity. I figured it was best to shut up about it for now before Mom and Dad freaked out and tossed me into a seminary.
* * * *
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Chapter 2
* * * *
I guess the only consolation I got after these superhero practice missions was the fact that Peter always took me home after a meal either together or with the group. Sometimes he went in with me, and we made pretty good use of what little time we had left together by playing video games in the living room and/or with me pulling him down for a torrid makeout session on the couch. Yeah, we could've moved on to my room, but that would mean running up to the attic, and, really, would anyone expect horny toad teenage boys to delay gratification?
We'd been caught a couple of times already, after the fact. It was a good thing that the front door was locked and was also hard to open, so that we'd have some warning when big sis, Liz, would fight with her house keys and try to break the door down by throwing her weight against it. Unfortunately, during those two times, we'd gotten a little too tangled up, so that we nearly broke furniture scrambling to button up and make ourselves look decent. Of course, when Liz saw us as she made her way toward the kitchen, we were both disheveled, beet-red, shirt buttons poking out of the wrong buttonholes, and grinning stupidly at her.
"Uh-huh,” she said.
"Hi Liz! You're home!” I replied, my voice louder than it probably should've been.
"Hey, how's it going?” she asked, her eyes narrowing and moving shiftily from me to Peter and back.
"It's going good. Even better. Is it? Yeah, I guess. Good. Really good. Totally better,” I babbled, while Peter could only manage a raised hand in greeting and a weird phrase like, “Down the basement."
Liz rolled her eyes and trudged off, calling back as she vanished from view, “I want the results of pregnancy tests from both of you by the time I get out of the shower!"
That day, though, a pretty nasty surprise awaited me when he drove me home after pizza. I'd been praying like hell that no one would be home because I seriously needed to be physical with my boyfriend. That was what happened whenever said boyfriend teased me with a hand rubbing the inside of my thigh while gobbling down gigantic slices of mushroom pizza. Seriously, how much more Freudian could he get? So when we drove up to the sidewalk directly in front of my home, I nearly screamed inside the car.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding,” I said, my jaw dropping, as I stared at a scuzzy-looking station wagon parked in front of us. It looked like a damn hearse, which was perfect for the guy who owned it. I wouldn't have been surprised if it used to be a hearse that was converted to make it look harmless and suburban in that Stepford Wives kind of way.
Peter stared at me, shocked. “What?"
"It's him. He's here."
He looked back at the car. “It's an old station wagon that looks kinda like a hearse in disguise. What's the big deal?"
I turned to him. “Can I move in with you for a while? Like, till after Liz breaks up with Scanlon...or maybe marries him and moves out?"
"Who's Scanlon?” Peter's gaze dropped to my hands, which had somehow developed a mind of their own and had attached themselves to his right arm. My fingers curled into his jacket sleeve, looking like pale, bony claws. I didn't even realize that I'd grabbed him.
"My sister's boyfriend. Sort of. He wants to be with her, anyway, and he's trying really hard, but he's, like, something from a midnight carnival, and he won't go away, no matter how much garlic I hang around the door.” I stole an anxious glance at the front door. “Please? Can I hang out with you for a little while longer? Until he goes away?"
Peter looked lost as he continued to grip the wheel with both hands. I had a feeling that I'd planted seeds of panic in him. “Eric, you know I can't do that. The heroes have a powwow coming up, and I can't be late. Maybe you should enter the house from the back. How about the fire escape?"
Beads of sweat actually broke out on my forehead. “I can't. The back door has its own lock, and I only have the key to the front door. The fire escape only goes so far down, and I can't jump it without making enough noise to catch Liz's attention. Besides, my bathroom window's shut and locked from the inside.” Note to self: never, ever do that again.
"Eric, calm down. Eric?” Peter pulled my hands away and took my face in both of his, forcing me to stare at him. “You'll survive. Just go through that door, say hello, and run like hell up the stairs. Or pretend like you're sick and make all kinds of gross puking sounds."
"I'm going to die, Peter,” I said, my voice finally cracking. “I'll never make it to the stairs. Scanlon's vibes are like a vacuum from hell. He took me out for ice cream one time—ice cream, fer chrissakes! He thinks I'm ten years old!"
Peter blinked and then frowned. “We take each other out to ice cream all the time."
"Not at the Krazy Klown's Kreamy Karnival, we don't. Have you ever had ice cream with a complimentary clown's nose devaluing your manhood, Peter? Or that red curly wig that they give out to customers on Fridays?” I shook my head, shuddering from the memories. “God, I swear, I'm going to throw myself under the nearest bus if Mr. Stepford Cthulhu subjects me to more humiliation like that."
"Then suggest someplace that's more grown-up."
&nbs
p; I couldn't believe what I was hearing. “Peter, you obviously don't get it."
No amount of begging, bribing, or self-whoring would sway him, though. I guess I'd have to take the issue up with Magnifiman and voice my grievance over Peter's indoctrination into virtuous living. I mean, seriously, folks...what the hell?
So before I knew it, I found myself alone, abandoned, and staring helplessly at the front door, my house key in hand. I told myself to do exactly what Peter suggested, so while turning the key, I mentally calculated how many seconds it would take for me to cover the length of the hallway from the front door to the bottom step of the stairs if I were to break out into a run at full cheetah speed. I guessed somewhere in the five-second range. Two, if I were to not just run, but leap like a freaked-out gazelle on steroids.
The front door didn't open properly. It still doesn't. It used to, but the top hinge somehow got messed up from moisture or rust or whatever, and the door itself tilted in its frame, so that pushing it open always required a little bit of brute strength. It also goes without saying that it didn't open quietly. In situations like this, that would be something close to a tragedy.
I opened the door and held my breath, wincing when it moved with that familiar “eerk!” sound. There was no sign of life anywhere up and down the hallway, but I could hear voices in the living room. Crap. I opened the door some more but took care to keep the gap at a minimum—just enough for me to squeeze myself through. I slipped inside and closed the door, pressing myself against it as I braced myself. I thought of using the door like some kind of trampoline by pushing against it and then set a high enough speed for my desperate run.
"Okay, ready, set...go!"
I pushed and threw myself forward, only to be yanked back with a cry because the crooked door had caught the end of my jacket when I shut it. I fell back against the door then landed on my ass with a loud Whump! Bright stars exploded behind my eyelids.
"Eric? Is that you?” Liz called out from the living room. “Hey, come on in! We've got a visitor! Guess who?"
Dracula, that was who. The undead. The damned.
I sat on the floor, my jacket anchored to the door, while I reached above me and fumbled for the doorknob in a panic, the stars slowly fading before me. I stared at the living room door, praying that no one would emerge. Unfortunately, when it rains, it fucking pours.
Scanlon appeared, greasy head poking out of the door. He saw me and smiled, his white picket fence, freckled face glowing, his perfect teeth sparkling as brightly as his Richie Cunningham-styled hair—or, rather, helmet. “Oh, there you are, you little scamp,” he said, stepping into the hallway. “Need help?"
Ohmigawd, yeah, I did! Where was Van Helsing when I needed him? I shrank against the door as he neared, the sight of his too-familiar outfit—crisply-ironed, short-sleeved oxford shirt tucked into crisply-ironed slacks with pleats down the front that were so defined, they could slice your legs into ribbons if you weren't careful—filling my immediate world. I felt faint. When he stopped in front of me and started fiddling with the door while cheerfully engaging me in conversation, my vision began to fade.
"You silly little goose,” he said, laughing, when I was finally free. “You should be more careful when you close the door behind you.” He stopped laughing to inhale sharply between his teeth, as though he were trying to suck up all the excess drool that had collected there. He always did that. It was, like, “Ha-ha-ha-ha! Slurp!” Really gross.
And...silly little goose. Who called anyone “silly little goose” in this day and age? I mumbled my thanks as I crawled away, trying to place some floor between him and me before I spontaneously combusted. My vision slowly restored itself. Then I felt a hand take hold of one of my arms. “Here. Let me help you up."
He gave me a sharp tug, and I stumbled to my feet.
"You okay, champ?"
Champ. Who called anyone “champ” in this day and age?
"Yeah, thanks."
"Be careful when you close the door next time, okay?” he said, laughing. He even mussed up my hair. “You funny bunny."
OMFG. I just flailed and went, “Gak!” then staggered away, my senses completely overcome by the too-strong essence of 1950s wholesomeness that always oozed out of him. I think he said something else, but I was too disoriented to pick up on what it was. I just headed first to the kitchen to get something to drink, restore my strength, and then scrounge around for garlic bulbs that I could string together. Mom always bought those things in bulk, anyway, so using about a hundred of them at a time wouldn't be a problem. I poured myself some apple juice, gathered several bulbs, and, using my shirt to haul my treasure up to my room, I hurried upstairs. Behind me, in the living room, Scanlon said something, and Liz burst out laughing. Maybe they were talking about the silly little goose who just had his jacket caught in the door, the little scamp. Whatever. I had a house to protect, a soul to save (mine!), and a collection of garlic to string together. Maybe, on a Saturday, I should swing by our parish church between masses and see if I could steal some holy water from the fount. I owned a pretty good collection of old-fashioned bottles with cork stoppers, and I could use one of them for my purpose.
I stayed in my room for the rest of the afternoon and spent pretty much all that time surfing and playing retro games. I'm totally addicted to Asteroids, and I asked Dad once if he used to play the game, when Atari came out with it centuries ago.
He lowered the newspaper and peered out at me. “Son, I was too busy surviving on ramen noodles, a part-time minimum-wage job, and suffering through college for a degree that turned out to be a useless waste of time and money. Besides, your mother and I were dating. Even after we got married, we had to wait a while before starting a family. Living off ramen noodles didn't exactly end after college, you know. If anything, my daily nutrition expanded itself to ramen noodles and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."
'Nuff said, Dad.
Remind me to skip over the 50s decade when I get older. I think people get all bitter in their 50s and then kick back and turn cool again in their 60s. I guess, after living on this crummy earth for forty years, they really can't help but look back at their lives and wonder what the hell went wrong, just as they get closer to retirement age.
After playing, I opened my inbox to find this message from Althea: Hey, Eric. What do you think of bingo? I sighed and sent my response: I don't. Life's better that way. Aren't you supposed to be saving humanity from the scum of the earth right now? Quit messing around and do your job.
* * * *
Scanlon stayed for dinner, by the way. I guess spending all that time on the computer, lost in complete denial of his existence, didn't alter the course of reality. When Mom called for me to help out in the kitchen, I went all obedient son on her and hurried downstairs, only to be told that we had a guest for dinner, and that I was needed to make sure that we had enough food to serve.
In brief...
"Here you are,” Mom said, marching over to the table, where her purse and a writing tablet sat. She read what was on the tablet and then scribbled something on it before tearing off the top sheet. She handed it to me and then rummaged through her purse for her wallet. “Make sure to tell Mrs. Zhang that Scanlon can't take very spicy food. Remember the time we served him Kung Pao chicken? The poor dear came down with the worst diarrhea, I heard. Just...nasty."
"Mom, I might have to call child protection services or something if you continue with that story,” I spluttered, totally grossed out. Who in the world would want to subject young, impressionable minds to Scanlon's toilet experiences?
"Anything on that list that's spicy, make sure that she cooks a special batch for us without the red peppers and whatever else they use to, you know..."
"Cause people to blow fire out of both ends,” I said glumly, staring at the list.
"That would be a less subtle way of putting things, but yes. Here's the money. And don't dawdle like you usually do.” She narrowed her eyes at me as I pockete
d the cash. “I know you tend to get pretty chatty with Mrs. Zhang, Eric, and while that's fine when we don't have guests over, it's completely unacceptable tonight. Okay?"
"Yeah, okay.” I sighed as I shuffled out of the kitchen.
Unfortunately, on my way out, I had to pass by the living room, where Scanlon, Liz, and Dad hung around, watching TV.
"Hey, Tiger! Where you goin'?” Scanlon called out.
"To hell and back, judging from tonight's schedule,” I muttered, but I pretended like I didn't hear him. It helped that I was nearly running for the door that time, so I had an excuse for snubbing Mr. Happy Days.
As much as I'd have preferred to chill with Mrs. Zhang, I didn't really have any other choice but to follow Mom's orders, so I gave her the list and told her Mom's instructions for spicy stuff.
"What, your guest too wussy for my spices?” she snorted. I shrugged and looked sheepish. “Humph. You Westerners. Don't know real Chinese food if it bit you in your white asses.” She marched off to the kitchen and barked out orders to her husband, who was also the chef.
The only comfort I had then was the little bowl of wonton soup she gave me, while I perched on one of the stools scattered inside her takeout place, waiting for my order to be cooked. She always gave me freebies like that when I had to wait for my order. She said those freebies were good for my weight problem. That is, they were supposed to add between twenty to fifty pounds after consumption.
Let me say that I was glad as hell that those hoped-for pounds never materialized after downing her soup.
Curse of Arachnaman Page 2
