Super Born: Seduction of Being

by Keith Kornell

  I began to breathe again. Hazel eyes, my ass, I thought. “Thanks,” I said, as I turned to leave.

  The old man grabbed my arm. I was expecting fatherly advice. Instead, what I got was, “And if I ever catch you tryin’ to cop one of my tips again, you’ll end up with a bottle up your ass.”

  I patted the old man on the shoulder, then tried to walk out of the bar as coolly as I could with my butt cheeks clenched shut.

  I hurried out the door with my mind stuck on thoughts of the blond. Where had she gone? I didn’t know how, but I needed to find her again. I looked left up the street, then right, bit saw nothing that offered me a clue as to where she had gone. What an a-hole I had been to have her right in front of me, twice, and just walk away.

  I searched the street again but this time, rounding the corner, came the wrong woman. Instead of the blond, it was the same woman that I had seen earlier in her “Ravage Me” dress. This time, another, equally attractive, “ravagette” accompanied her. She whispered to her friend and they both laughed, then lasered me with look at us smiles. This time, though, I looked right past them both down the street. This time I had focus out the wing-wang.

  I could see that my lack of interest surprised the brunette, and the smile drained from her face as she stared at me. Her shock was so great that she plowed right into a couple that was walking toward her despite her friends best efforts to steer her away. But in my quest to find Ms. Flashing Eyes, I barely noticed.

  I stood there for a moment feeling sorry for myself, sighed deeply, then lowered my head and sulked back toward my car.

  I did not find out till later, but had I only looked up to the roof of O’Malley’s, I would have seen a dark image crouched beside the chimney looking down, watching me.

  Instead, I watched my feet shuffle on the icy sidewalk as a Miner’s beer truck flashed by at high speed, splashing a spray of slush over my shoes and pants. I deserve every drop of that, I thought, for screwing up again. “Fuck” was what I said, what I thought, and what I felt. “You’re fucked,” is what my gas gauge said when I tried to start my car.

  “Hazel eyes, my ass.”

  Chapter 3

  How to Get an RFD Killed

  When I woke up the next morning, I was convinced that I was being strangled and probed by aliens. To my relief, upon opening my eyes, I realized I had wrapped my mouth with a rolled-up coil of sheet and was only being probed by the empty beer bottles in my bed. I had been apparently rolled around in my sleep, and one had wound up in my ear, one in my belly button, and one was somewhere I’d rather not mention.

  I found myself lying across the bed, sort of, with one leg dangling over the side. Looking around my messy bedroom in the dim, gray daylight of January, I felt like everything was back to normal…yuck.

  But then my morning glory made a small tent in my boxers, reminding me of the night before: Ms. Blue/Green Eyes. (And Dr. Jones and Olga Settchuoff too.) Without any need for my usual caffeine IV, I was instantly alert. Today I had a purpose.

  I turned on my computer, and turned on the TV—to the news network, no less. Christ, I even took a shower and shaved. There was nothing like the image of a beautiful woman and promise of some real spending money to make a guy feel motivated. Carpe diem, I thought. What an asshole.

  While I was trying to figure out what to use as a coffee filter, if one should not happen to have any more coffee filters, my attention was drawn to the TV.

  “Now reporting on these mysterious events live from Scranton, Pennsylvania, is correspondent Janelle Roote…” I couldn’t believe my ears…Janelle Roote? What kind of name is that?

  “Good morning, Sarah,” Janelle began, as I moved over in front of the TV. “I’m reporting to you from the scene here on Penn Avenue just outside O’Malley’s Bar, where last night three bosses of the reputed Garbonzo crime family were found locked in the back of a beer truck that witnesses said, ‘just dropped from the sky.’ Each alleged crime figure was found hog-tied with black ropes and pink gift-wrap bows on their heads, and each was covered with incriminating documents taped to their bodies. Police officials with whom I have spoken indicate that this could be quite a blow to organized crime in the city. Not only were documents found with the alleged mobsters, but two of them have outstanding warrants.” Janelle reached up to hold down her fur hat, which was being blown by the brisk January wind. “Sarah, witnesses claim it was quite a sight. As you can see behind me, workers are just now beginning to remove the truck, whose fall made quite an impression on Penn Avenue., I’ll tell you that!”

  “Not the kind of impression you want to make, hey, Janelle?

  “That’s right, Sarah,” said Janelle, giving a very fake laugh. “Let me show you the tape of an interview I had with an eyewitness earlier this morning…” Janelle raised her eyebrows and raised her fingers to put quote marks around the word eyewitness. “Keep in mind these words are those of a thirty-year-old man in Scranton and, Sarah, you know what dealing with them can be like…Our viewers should keep in mind that the eyewitness’s views do not necessarily reflect those of the station.”

  The tape ran of a young man introducing himself as Ed, wearing a leather helmet with half-broken antlers on it. Despite his age, Ed had a pimply face and a poor excuse for a sparse beard: just a few random hairs, really. He was very thin. (There was a lot of running in the Antler Game—apparently he played a lot of it.) His voice was soft and uncertain as he described the events from his vantage point, as he was leaving O’Malley’s Bar.

  “….The sound made me look up and that’s when she dropped the truck and it fell; scared the shit out of me. We heard the people inside the truck, but none of us could figure out how to open the doors. Finally, I figured out that you had to lift the door up by the handle, and there they were, all tied up.” There was a quick cut back to Janelle, who appeared to be silently mouthing, blah, blah, blah.

  “Well, Janelle, that sure sounds like an ‘antler-raising’ experience,” said Sarah, brushing back her long red hair, which was shining brightly in the studio lights.

  Janelle just nodded. “Luckily, it isn’t deer season anymore!” She repeated her fake laugh. “This is Janelle Roote, reporting live from Penn Avenue, keeping you informed on the unusual arrests that are sure to strike a major blow to organized crime in Scranton. Back to you in that toasty warm studio, Sarah.

  “Thank you, Janelle,” Sarah said before turning to her co-anchor. “Phil did you get a load of those antlers? What is it with the men of Scranton?” Then she turned back to the camera. “After the break, we’ll tell you what items in your kitchen cupboard could kill you or your loved ones at any moment. Then at the top of the hour, Noreen Dunn gives us the third installment of her groundbreaking series, ‘The Dangers of Breathing.’ You can’t afford to miss it,” Sarah said, leading into the commercial.

  I couldn’t believe they had missed it. They didn’t believe a word Ed said, just because he was an RFD. But Ed had all the information I needed. Didn’t anyone else hear him say “she”—“She dropped the truck?”

  I pounded the Internet in search of any more information on the event. No one seemed to know how the truck came to be in the middle of the street. As the only witnesses were young men from Scranton, no one took them serious. It looked like Ed and I had a date with destiny coming up; not that I believed in Ed so much as I believed in my eye flashing beauty.

  Wait a minute. Breathing is dangerous? I gotta see that.

  * * *

  That night to get into O’Malleys, I had to circle around disgruntled unionized city workers who toiled under work lamps to repair the damage from the previous night’s beer truck landing on Penn Avenue. It took two of them to do the work and another five to adequately convey their annoyance at being called in for double-overtime work, forced to drink coffee, eat donuts, and scratch their butts for hours. Somehow they managed.

  I returned to O’Malley’s with a sense of anticipation. Primarily, I was there to meet Ed, but
I prepared myself, just in case she was there. This time, I vowed not to let the SSS effect keep me from speaking with her. The anticipation was like being six and coming downstairs on Christmas morning, hoping to find that toy you’d wanted all year.

  But she wasn’t there. Instead of finding that special toy, it was like the year I found Uncle Ernie drunk under the tree—only this time it was the grizzled ol’ barkeep I found. I turned my attention to him as he stood at a table nearby. When he recognized me, I saw his eyes go wide, and he quickly reached over and grabbed up a tip that lay on a table beside him.

  I walked up to him. “How are things tonight, my man?”

  “It’s been a horrible night trying to keep up with all these assholes…” he said, as the sounds of rifle shots rang out from the back room followed by shuffling feet. “And now you’re just the cherry on my steaming pile of shit,” he said, shaking his head. “What can I do for you? Not thinkin’ of buyin’ a wee drink, are ya?”

  “Have you seen Ed here tonight?” I asked.

  The old man stroked his chin for a moment. “Well now, it seems to me that I ain’t served you a drink yet, and this here is what you call a bar, not an information booth.”

  “Got ya,” I said feeling in my pocket for any signs of money.

  I pulled out my last rumpled twenty and said, “Well, bartender, I’d like two beers, one for me and one for my friend Ed. Is he here?”

  The barkeep took the money, returned with two bottles of beer, but no change, and pointed. “He’s around back…but if you wants to talk with ’im, I suggest you do it quick like. He’s next up wearing the antlers. That’ll be 'im putting them antlers on right now,” he said, pointing.

  I wasn’t sure why two beers cost $20. Either the barkeep was a greedy old soul or he was trying to make up for the drinks Jones and I had not bought the night before…maybe both. In the back of my mind I debated whether to sell a kidney or try male prostitution as a way to pay for dinner. But I needed to talk with Ed, so I let the barkeep keep the change.

  I slid into the back room with all the cool I could muster. Remembering his pimply face and thin body, I recognized Ed in the crowd of RFDs preparing for the Antler Game, some having trouble figuring out how to put on the leather helmets with the antlers attached. One had his over his face—despite the obvious problem breathing, it was a good look for him. I marched up behind Ed and tapped him on the left shoulder. He looked back around over his right, but then eventually found me. “Hey, aren’t you the guy from the news report this morning?” I asked.

  Ed shyly nodded.

  Beside us, Ed’s friend, Ken,was fumbling, trying to load the rifle, trying to figure out which end of the bullet went which way. A tall black RFD taunted him, fingers waving in his ears, calling “Ken can’t load a rif…rife…gun!”

  “Wow, it’s really cool to meet you, a TV star and all,” I fluffed.

  Ed smiled but didn’t say a word. I guess an RFD can get SSS with anyone.

  “It would blow my mind if you could sit down and tell me what you saw last night.” I pulled him away and we both sat at the same table where Jones and I had been. “Hey, can I buy ya a beer?” I said, handing him one.

  “Thanks,” he said—still with the slurred single syllables, but it was an intelligible word.

  “So, dude, what happened out there?”

  It was slow and agonizing but, eventually, Ed told me the story of how he’d left the bar and heard the whistling sound like a plane flying overhead. Then he heard a cell phone ring in the sky. That made him look up, and he saw this beer truck hanging above him—a woman dressed in black was standing on top of O’Malley’s, holding it up with two fingers. With her other hand she answered a mobile phone, and he heard her say, “No, Mommy’s at work.” That’s when the truck slipped out of her fingers and it fell straight to the ground with a loud crash. The woman said, “Crap,” and flew off.

  When I asked him for a description of the woman, he said she was dressed all in black with a black cape and a black mask over her eyes. When I confirmed his description, he said, “Yep, a flying bitch in black.”

  By then, the other RFDs were getting anxious to continue the Antler Game, and I had enough of the info I needed. So I thanked Ed and told him to enjoy his beer, and he quickly resumed his game.

  “Bitch in black…” I thought to myself. How dare that mofo call my girl a…you know. Then again, wasn’t it better than Ms. Blue/Green Eyes or “the blond?” Maybe I could just shorten it to the B.I.B. No one needed to know what it meant anyway.

  I walked back into the front room to talk with the barkeep. I had to wait while he helped up an antler-wearing RFD who had somehow fallen while running along the edge of the bar.

  “What can I do for ya now?” he asked, knowing I wasn’t there for more drinks.

  “If you should see the blond that was here the other night come in again, can you give me a call?” I said, handing him a business card I’d printed on my computer.

  He took it but didn’t even look at it. “What’s in it for me?” he asked.

  I dug through my pockets again, but came up dry. “A hundred bucks,” I said boldly.

  “A hundred bucks?”

  “Yeah, a hundred bucks….you take a check?”

  Just then a shot rang out from the back room. It was not the usual-sounding rifle, and it was not followed by many other shots, as usual, nor the usual idiotic laughter. Instead, we could hear the RFDs yelling at one another. The barkeep knew there was something wrong as well, and we both moved quickly to the back room.

  We found Ken and another RFD wrestling with the rifle, and on the floor across the bar from them lay Ed, shot in the head, antlers brokenl

  “My god,” said the barkeep, “I never dreamed one of ’em would actually hit somebody…Why did it have to be you, Ed?” Tears began to flow and the barkeep shook with emotion.

  I lay my arm over his shoulders. “Were you close to Ed?” I said.

  “Not hardly, Ed was a flamin’ moron,” the barkeep sniveled, “but he owed me two hundred dollars for his bar tab!” Then he began sobbing again. I let my arm slide off his shoulders.

  Ken’s rifle was open, which made me doubt he had ever loaded it—I wasn’t so sure that Ken was the shooter. Somebody’s killing witnesses, I thought to myself. Followed by, And maybe they’re killing journalists who talk to witnesses! My feet did their duty.

  The next morning the papers were calling it a terrible barroom accident, and the mayor was calling for the prohibition of the use of live ammo in the bars allowing the Antler Game. Duh.

  ***

  That night, while I was licking my wounds with the last of the Miner’s Lites in my fridge, Jones called and asked me to meet him at his place. He had a job for me. So I headed on over.

  His apartment was more a messy research lab than an apartment, with papers and books stacked everywhere. Incense filled the air. I stepped through the mess sheepishly to take a seat in front of the desk where Jones sat.

  “Yes, yes, I have for you a very important job. I told you the answer to finding the super female was in my briefcase, and here it is,” he said, pointing to a blackboard filled with mathematical formulas that covered the entire wall of his apartment. Jones drew a big circle around the final computation. “Yes, there it is,” he said and then turned to his desk, which was full of papers. He gingerly plucked a pair of sheer purple thong panties off of a textbook, looked up at me with a self-conscious grin, and said, “Research, research, you know,” and then proceeded to look something up in the textbook.

  Part of me felt sorry for the sap. Here he thought the answer was in those numbers, and I already knew so much more about the real-life B.I.B. I would humor him anyway, but I was the guy with all the answers, not him. Unfortunately, I was also the guy who had gotten Ed killed, or so I had convinced myself. Should I tell Jones about the danger? No, he was happy in his little world with his formulas. He was safe.

  “Tomorrow, first
thing, you must go to the Hall of Records. I have used the epsilon radiation readings, adjusted for halflives and periodic conversion, of course, to tell me the most likely time that a super female would have been born and where. According to my calculations, she would have been born in Scranton at one of these two hospitals during the Super Bowl of 1976. That would make it…January 18, 1976. The closer to halftime she was born, the more likely it is that she would develop into a super female.”

  I had a hard time keeping a straight face. Super Bowl? What does that have to do with anything? I began to doubt Jones, right then and there. Christ, I knew more than he did. This was true crap. But I hid my smile and nodded—what a pro.

  “You must check for women born in Scranton on January 18, 1976. Make a list of them all. We will prioritize them by how close to halftime they were born. If my theory is correct, the one born closest to halftime will be the one with the greatest chance of having developed super powers, ” Jones smiled and handed me a paper with all the date and time information. “So, can you do this tomorrow, Logan, my friend?”

  I saluted with a couple of fingers. “Can do. But this seems like chump work. Why would you need me, when you’re such a great researcher yourself?”

  Jones was perplexed—clearly he felt always being the smartest person in the room was hell. “Because of this,” he said gesturing to his wall- sized black board filled with equations. “And these,” he said, gesturing to his ocean of books. “And my lab and class schedule at the university. But, most importantly, all my nights are full. Monday’s are Manic Mondays, Tuesdays are Two-For-Tuesdays, Ladies Night is generally Wednesday at most bars…do I have to go on? For God’s sake, man, can’t you think for yourself?”

  “Sounds to me like your ‘research’ every night at the bars has become more important than the Nobel prize.”

  “Must I tell you again? Okay, you have an entire generation of women in this town with increased abilities and desires—that includes sexual desires and abilities, huh? Get it now? And a generation of like-aged men who still think they have a ‘pee pee.’ The women in Scranton are an untapped goldmine of amazing, intelligent, potent, yet unsatisfied female nuggets with no one to mine them but me! After all, it’s not their fault all the men around them are idiots. I do my best to make as many of them happy as I can, but in a town like this, believe me, there is not enough of me to go around. I’m a goddamn public utility for these poor, women. So you do the fucking leg work, it’s Two-For-Tuesday at Skelly’s bar tonight and I’m up to my ass in research!”