"Today's incident is a clear warning sign,” she declared, looking all grim and subtly glam. She even furrowed her brows a little. “This new threat, this new supervillain, Arachnaman, is much more powerful than both the Shadow Puppet and the Deathtrap Debutantes combined. With an army of mechanical spiders he can unleash at any time, he can attack several locations at once, unlike the Shadow Puppet's killer mannequins, which are fewer, slower, and tend to move around in smaller groups."
Sergeant Vitus Bone of the Vintage City Police Department had been interviewed earlier, and the camera cut to that for a moment. “Our new threat so far—cough!—has attacked an arcade, an adult store—hrrrum!—a new age shop, and today, a German car dealer,” he said, sagging, pouchy cheeks trembling from his perpetual coughing fit. “He'd also destroyed four other different businesses and a Chinese apartment building. We're working with the superheroes in piecing together—hrrrum!—this latest puzzle."
"So do you think that there's a method to his madness, sir?” Ms. Bailey prodded. I thought I saw the way she eyed the good sergeant, like she was all worried about whether or not she was going to catch his disease. In fact, now that I think about it, she tended to lean away whenever she had to interview him.
"Yes, yes, there is. Cough! There's always a purpose for these madmen's attacks, Ms. Bailey—cough!—even if it's as simple as mindless vanity and an abnormal appetite for bling, like you see from the Deathtrap Debutantes."
Ms. Bailey leaned away a little more till it looked like she was suffering from some horribly debilitating back pain. I wanted to give her a cane for Christmas. “And what do you think is this new villain's purpose, sir?” She was beginning to grimace from the effort, too.
"Ah—hrrrum!—that's all classified information, Ms. Bailey. Cough!"
"Oh. And you don't think it's simply because this new threat is hopelessly repressed?"
The interview was terminated when Sergeant Bone gave Ms. Bailey this look, one that I frankly couldn't describe other than “Lay off the bong, lady."
The news then returned to the present live reporting. “We haven't had an opportunity to interview any of the superheroes..."
"Especially Magnifiman,” I muttered, stuffing my mouth with a roll.
"...especially Magnifiman,” Ms. Bailey reported, pausing for the smallest fraction of a second to steal a glance at the sky. “We've yet to find out what they've learned about—"
Ms. Bailey paused when a voice, most likely from the news crew, interrupted her reporting. She turned in surprise when a hand appeared from behind the camera. It held up a scrap of paper. She took it and read its contents, blinking and looking a little confused. But she was a seasoned professional and was able to compose herself in another second.
Looking straight at the camera, she said, “Apparently, we've just received a response via Twitter. This is regarding our earlier interview of Sergeant Bone.” She cleared her throat and read. “'We're like kicking your ass when we come back, bitches.’ That was, uh, @DeathDebs. You know who they are."
Another hand, or maybe the same one, appeared with another scrap of paper. Ms. Bailey sighed, tossed aside the Debutantes’ threatening tweet, and plucked out the new message. “This one says, ‘Ur hairstyle is like so 2008.'” Ms. Bailey rolled her eyes and crumpled the note into a ball. “For Channel 3 News, this is Bambi Bailey reporting."
* * * *
Even with school still in session and Peter being stuck doing superhero work part-time, I considered myself pretty damned lucky to be going steady with him. He didn't have to work-work, that is, because his parents wanted him to focus on school. Well, not until he turned eighteen, he told me, because he was determined to strike out on his own, though he was still tied to Vintage City as a superhero.
"I had all these plans for college and stuff, but I don't know,” he said one time, shrugging. “When life throws you a curveball..."
"Maybe your powers have an expiration date, and when that comes, we can just pack up and move away from this dump,” I offered, but he only laughed and then distracted me by unzipping my jeans.
I told him that I'd take any opportunity that came my way, so long as we were able to spend as much time together as possible. I also dug the fact that his future plans helped shape mine. I didn't want to think about how my parents would react to “I decided to stay put, and I'll think about college later on.” A PhD was too abstract a goal, anyway, for someone my age. I figured Mom and Dad would eventually come around to it, but in the meantime, best to just shut up and wait and hope that a local junior college would suffice. Okay, it seemed to work for Liz, so I didn't see anything wrong about my following in her footsteps.
At any rate, it was still school time, neither of us worked, and our time apart was largely spent planning the best way to make use of the little time that Mom allowed me before “curfew” hit. After the phone calls, we'd meet somewhere, or he'd pick me up. Sometimes I just invited him over and dragged him upstairs to my room. Weekdays, when everyone was at work, were the best times to do that.
I got home at around three, which gave me a little time to prepare for my planned after-school mini-date with Peter, who was expected to stop by a couple of hours later.
I'd just set the pizza down on the table when the doorbell rang. “It's just us two,” I panted, stepping back from the door and letting him in.
"Okay, cool,” he said vaguely.
I kept my eyes on him as I closed the door. “What's up? You look a little out of it."
"Hmm? What?"
I chuckled and locked the door. Walking up to him, I leaned closer and gave him a loud, sloppy kiss. “You're distracted. Anything wrong? Things a little crazy at the office?"
Peter blinked, and I swore I saw fog dissipating in his eyes. He looked back at me and finally grinned, eyes clear and mischievous. “Things are always crazy at the office,” he replied, returning my kiss, his hands wandering over familiar territory. “But I—"
"You can't tell me, I know. Classified information, yadda, yadda, yadda,” I said. Funny how my body parts tended to develop their own consciousness, completely separate from my brain. Then again, I figured that it was just as well that they did because once hormones kicked in, my brain was useless. “That's cool. Don't let the husband in on it..."
One unique talent we'd both developed was to hold a conversation while making out pretty heavily. I'd no idea how we managed it, but we did, and who the hell was I to complain? It didn't matter where we were and whether or not we were upright. We were both knotted, sweaty messes, clothes partly undone, hands and lips navigating through more areas than all Portuguese explorers did combined.
I had him pressed against the wall this time. Wasn't aware of that till we nearly lost our footing and slid down to the floor.
"No, I'm just not sure if I should tell you,” he breathed against my cheek.
"I'm not twisting your arm or anything..."
"You're doing something much, much better than that..."
Yeah, I was. Jeebus. I needed to stop before we had major accidents in the hallway. I forced myself to pull away and nearly passed out from the effort. Seriously, once horny levels had shot well past the stratosphere, making myself rational again was like worse than spiritual death. I'd say “hell on earth,” but that distinction was already reserved for bingo night. Besides, throwing cold water on myself felt like dying a hundred times over with nothing to show for it.
Perfect subject for haiku, no?
"Thanks,” Peter whispered, pressing a kiss against my forehead once we calmed down. “You know, if this were the kind of welcome I'd get after a hard day's work, I'm not going to think twice about dropping to my knees and proposing to you right now."
"Funny you should mention that. I've got dozens of ideas where we can elope.” Were those little hearts fluttering before my eyes? Ew. God, when I got schmoopy, I sure got schmoopy. I pulled away and buttoned up. Once my breathing had gone down, I readjusted my glasses, which I discove
red were slightly smudged, and gave Peter a loopy smile. “There's time enough for that. Let's eat.” I took his hand and led him to the dining-room. “I got us the thick-crust garlic-bread-type pizza with your favorite toppings. Do you want some soda? Dad stocked up on the stuff..."
"Eric?"
We'd reached the dining room door by then. Residual adrenaline kept my mouth moving. My brain stayed behind in the hallway. “I forgot to ask you about the salad, so I hope you're okay with the spring salad mix that Mom's so crazy about..."
Peter gave my hand a gentle tug. “Eric, I think Calais has a stalker."
Oh, great. One more item to add to the running list of The Heartbreaks of Being a Superhero's Boyfriend. I just stared at him. “Are you kidding me?"
Guess not. “You can check out the guestbook of the fan club if you don't believe me.” Oh, I sure as hell believed him. In fact, I believed him so much that I almost carried him, our pizza, drinks, and salad upstairs to my room in one fell swoop. Apparently my jealousy-induced adrenaline-attack wasn't strong enough, and I ended up recruiting Peter into helping me haul our meal upstairs.
I turned my computer on and immediately went for the fan site. Peter sat on the floor, leaning against my bed, while eating pizza. “I don't know if the message is still there, but it was in the guestbook. I wouldn't be surprised if the site owner deleted it by now,” he said in between bites. So I checked the guestbook, but I saw nothing other than gooey, misspelled messages from starry-eyed fans. For one insane moment, I wondered how much Althea would charge me if I hired her to hack into the damn place and destroy it completely, but logic took over pretty quickly. I supposed others could swoon over Peter as long as they didn't do anything more.
"There's nothing there,” I said as I took my place in front of him, crossing my legs under me and taking up my plate and unfinished pizza. “What did it say?"
"Well, it was a flame, really, but on the surface, you kind of expect that from fans who blur the line between reality and fantasy."
"I've seen stuff like that before, yeah. But what makes you think this is a stalker?"
Peter thought for a moment, slowly chewing. He swallowed and then took a sip of his drink. “I don't know, to be honest. The message went something like ‘You're a bunch of bitches and whores, yadda, yadda, yadda...fuck your stupid site and stupid wank stories because you'll never have him!’ That's most of what I can remember, anyway. And I've seen the same message pop up in the guestbook at random times. Whenever it showed up, it got deleted."
I decided not to tease him any more and then frowned. I've never dealt with anything like this before. Then again, I'd never had a boyfriend before, let alone a boyfriend who also happened to be a superhero. “Hmm. The internet's full of creepy jerks like that.” I paused when Peter's gaze finally settled on mine. “Are you actually nervous?"
"No, not really,” he said. “I can take care of myself. I do wonder about that person, though."
"But what if it was just a lame joke? I mean, people post crazy stuff like that all the time."
"What about copycats or that message actually being read by the wrong person, who really is a stalker type? Would she be incited to freak out and do something?"
I sighed and scratched my head, glancing back at my computer. The site was still up as I'd never clicked out of it. “I don't know,” I confessed. “Seriously, what can we do in a situation like this? You really can't call someone a stalker unless you're literally hounded everywhere you go, right? Or find, like, decapitated horses’ heads in your bed or something?"
Peter raised an eyebrow at me. One more sexy move of his, I might add. “Hopefully things won't go that far.” Our conversation pretty much mellowed out after that, and we were soon talking about everything else but superhero-related things. The time came as well when we pretty much stopped talking altogether.
And so the Afternoon Weekday Date Scorecard went like this: gay boys, 3. Bedsheets, below zero. Vatican-enforced check on virginity, 10. Sometimes life just plain sucked beyond the suckiest of suckage. And I was out of clean bedsheets, too.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 21
* * * *
Okay, so one drawback to being good friends with superheroes was that I walked around with a bull's eye on my forehead for Freddie's chameleon practice. The wily bastard. There were several others, not the least of which was the cyber-harassment I got from Althea over stupid bingo night.
The good thing was being able to sit in on their superhero powwow, which happened every once in a rare while, though Trent was never around. Whenever I asked Peter where his brother was, he'd tell me that Trent was at a meeting at work or doing some covert investigation sort of thing and stuff.
"Does he ever go on vacation?” I asked once.
"Vacation from what?” Peter replied, looking a little sheepish. “Vacation from superhero work or work-work? Either way, the answer's no."
I grimaced. “Damn. I guess it's good that he's single. I can't imagine any girl putting up with that."
"Oh, several have tried. All have failed. It's actually Trent's motto."
"Hmm. I can say the same about your fangirls.” Oh, yeah, I just had to throw that one in. I loved saying it, too. Many had tried, all had failed. Hell, yeah. Though that also reminded me to check up on Calais’ fan site and see what had been going on there. Maybe see if I could muster enough courage to read a fanfic from start to finish or check out some fanart. Maybe keeping an illegal bottle of whiskey around might not have been a bad idea, after all. Other people's fantasies about one's boyfriend were the stuff of nightmares, but they did have that certain train wreck appeal that kept calling to me. I was sure that it wouldn't be long before my defenses were breached, and I'd be subjecting myself to all kinds of lurid artwork and stories about Calais.
Superhero Powwows sometimes took place in a restaurant, where we'd all gather and “talk shop,” sometimes in code, depending on how busy it was around us. Well, they did, anyway. I was just there for the ride, and at least I was useful as an outsider whose opinion they wanted every once in a while. Okay, so not everything I said carried any weight to them, but I guess it helped, anyway, sharing my thoughts about things, being a regular person and all. Besides, after going through what I went through with the Trill, I guess that I pretty much earned my way into their select little group. I just wasn't sure whether or not I should be flattered by that, considering that how I earned my way into their clique involved a few weeks spent neck-deep in Satan's cesspit, fighting against my own friends.
For this particular “business meeting,” Wade decided to take us to some posh restaurant she really loved.
"I've got Dad's card,” she confessed, grinning and looking a little embarrassed, which she always did as an apology for being born into money. Sometimes I wondered if she was switched at birth, and some high maintenance Prada-obsessed type was whining her way through middle-class existence. “He told me to use it for work, and he'll get tax write-offs from them—or something like that. He's good friends with the restaurant owner, and he made sure to let the other guy know that I'm using his card.” She turned to Althea. “Pretend that it's your birthday because that's the excuse Dad gave his buddy."
"You mean I'll be getting froufrou cake and dessert?” Althea said, wide-eyed. “Girl, if I could have a birthday every day at that restaurant, I'd be all for it!"
Wade made a face. “Yeah, but the portions tend to be small. You know how it is in these places."
"Shoot, that never stopped me before,” Althea said, all sparkly-eyed behind her glasses, as she linked arms with Wade.
I hadn't met Wade's parents or the rest of her family. I was frankly afraid to; if meeting Peter's filthy-rich folks was enough to make me break out in anxiety-caused hives, the mere thought of being introduced to Wade's millionaire parents made me want to get bricked up alive. Going to a posh restaurant that required us to dress up a little proved to be the farthest I was willing to go in ru
bbing shoulders with anyone who earned at least a six-figure yearly income.
So I had to shower and then throw on a dressy ensemble, which included a tie. I stared at my reflection once I was done, my shoulders drooping.
"This is depressing,” I muttered, looking at myself up and down. Oxford shirt, slacks, slightly scuffed-up leather shoes, and a tie—I seriously missed my second-hand wardrobe. The outfit was not me. Sure, it made my parents stop dead in their tracks and stare in shock, with my dad narrowing his eyes and looking suspiciously at me and asking, “Eric? Is that you?” Mom, in the meantime, looked as though she were about to burst into tears. And Liz, bless her, pulled me aside and whispered, “You'd better use protection. I refuse to be an aunt at nineteen.” On the whole? Being dressed up made me itch. Literally. I considered bringing a small tube of anti-itch cream in case the allergic reaction I had to looking uptown turned into a problem.
Even in the restaurant—called Flambeau, by the way—and safely tucked away in a private booth that Wade had reserved for us, I couldn't get myself to relax and feel comfortable. Peter's admiring stare when he picked me up earlier didn't do much to calm me down. Seeing Althea and Freddie all dressed up as well helped a little, but not by much. Though I must admit, I almost laughed in Freddie's face because he looked just as uncomfortable in his shirt and slacks as I was in mine. In fact, he kept tugging at his collar as though it were choking him. At any rate, itching and all, I tried my best to suck it up and enjoy the company.
The next time the heroes decide to have a powwow in public, I'll have to dare Freddie into showing up in drag or something.
"No manifesto published yet,” Althea said as we worked through appetizers. “And so far, my examination of the spider bots didn't show anything weird or unique. They were all just regular robots, I guess, with each group designed for specific methods of destruction."
Curse of Arachnaman Page 17
