Super Born: Seduction of Being

by Keith Kornell

And you bought her flowerrrs

  You gave her pizzza

  So she leffft you

  Cause you’re a slobbbb”

  “Very funny,” I said.More and more she was starting to seem less like the sister I never had and more like every woman I had ever fallen for, and who’d made it clear I was a total ass. Great . “You want the pizza or not? And I’m not bringing you flowers, no matter how you beg, so forget it.”

  She turned toward the dishwasher, which stopped and popped its latch when she approached. She returned with plates, forks, and glasses for each of us.

  I looked down at them as if they were alien devices. “So, this is what goes in there?” I asked, pointing to the dishwasher.

  “In the civilized world, yes.”

  “You really eat your pizza on a plate? I thought there was a law or something.”

  Rebecca handed me a plate and glass, then set her own plate down on the counter and loaded a slice of pizza onto it. She cut a small piece with her fork, made a show of shoving it in her mouth, and turned away.

  “That’s just un-American,” I said to her back. “In fact, I think it’s French!”

  She did her best to ignore me and walked off toward the living room with her plate and a glass of water. Generally, my habit was to drink my dinner from a pull top can or bottle. I held up my empty glass and asked, “Just what am I supposed to put in here?”

  She stopped in the living room, took a long, dramatic sip of water, and said, “Why don’t you try some water?” Then she settled herself on the sofa while the TV surfed channels on its own.

  “Why don’t you try some water!” I mocked to myself in a squeaky voice. “Why don’t I let Jennifer burn your ass. How’d you like that? I’m sure she has plenty of water for you,” I mumbled, stacking pizza slices on one another. I was still feeling the burn from her little song.

  A few minutes later, I joined her on the couch with four pieces of pizza stacked on my plate, no fork, no napkin, no water, and placed a sweaty Miner’s Lite bottle on the coffee table without a coaster, declaring my independence.

  “Nice,” she said, without looking at me. “Really nice.” I thought that deep inside it must have been killing her, but then I caught a little curl of a smile on her face.

  We chilled, watched TV, irritated each other, and she laughed at me while I struggled with B.I.B. Rescue and Pub Crawler. “Those are so easy,” she gloated. “I can’t believe you can’t find her!” She stole two of my pieces of pizza, encountering little resistance, and ate what was left in the box, plus the “healthy” salad. For a skinny chick, that girl could eat. And did I mention the four Miner’s Lites she drank?

  “You got any ice cream?” she asked, excited at the prospect.

  “I don’t recall that being on your grocery list,” I fired back,

  “Oh well, put it on…for tomorrow,” she said, fluffing some pillows. She lay across the sofa with her head on them.

  “I’ll just put that here, right under the side of beef and truckload of healthy fruit and vegetables—ten gallons i-c-e c-r-e-a-m,” I said pretending to write.

  But she wasn’t even paying attention to me. Instead, she watched the TV intently. “Good. That would be great.”

  Now that we had finished and the post-pizza burping on my part had begun, I was surprised when her petite hand drifted over and curled up in mine. At first it startled me, but there was nothing suggestive about it. However much she might have reminded me of some of my least favorite exes, Rebecca seemed a nice girl, and more than anything she seemed like family. Throughout the night we watched some shows and old movies, laughed, joked. It was nice… once you got past the nagging, bitching, demands, anal BS, irritating questions, and the general invasion of my man cave. .

  * * *

  Being Carmine Camino isn’t as easy as you would think. There are all kinds of responsibilities, planning, and shit like that. I was pulling a late night alone in my newly remodeled office, sitting hunched over my new black desk. In one hand I had a half-empty bottle of beer, and in the other, a brochure on the Israeli assault rifles that had just arrived from overseas in crates marked Farm Implements. “These should do the trick,” I said to myself, dropping the brochure into the clutter on my desk.

  I forced out a satisfied belch, picked up my pen, and reviewed the handwritten list of the men I wanted for the job. I checked them one by one, paused, and then added two more names to the bottom of the list. “Gotta have Ricky and Crazy Eyes, whatever the hell that putz’s real name is,” I thought. I reviewed the satellite photo of the apartment building on my computer screen and checked it against the sketch I had made on my pad. Shoulda been a freakin’ artist, I thought. Content, I leaned back in my chair and took a long pull from my beer.

  I stared at the ceiling while I gently rocked in my chair. In my head, I reviewed the report I had received from the man who had been watching the apartment. He’d seen a blond woman outside the apartment assaulting a man in a car nearby. He then reported the same woman slipping into a car with the journalist just before he left, who’d returned with arms full of bags. The man reported how unusual that was. “Most of the time, this guy comes home with a bag of takeout and a twelve-pack of beer. The bags from a linens store tell me he’s got a guest.”

  Confident in the intelligence my guys had obtained, I finished my beer and played a game of B.I.B. Rescue—a sarcastic one, since rescuing the bitch was the last thing on my mind. I ended the game squashed by a beer truck—figures!—then typed in the address for my favorite porn site.

  * * *

  At 3:00 a.m. the droning of the TV can get annoying. I lay back in the corner of the sofa, barely hearing the commercial that was trying to sell me something or another. My hand still held the beer bottle I’d been holding when I fell asleep—I’d let it turn horizontal, spilling most of it. Rebecca lay asleep on my lap, her body feeling like the Sahara…at noon…in August…the fifteenth. The Super Born all seemed to run a lot hotter than the rest of us.

  Without giving my actions any thought, as I often did, I began lightly running my hands through her hair.I had become convinced that she was not a killer, a schemer, or a liar. Rebecca seemed like a genuinely frightened girl, who just happened to be able to run machines with her thoughts and ate pizza with a fork. The more I was with her, the more I believed her story.

  If that were true, though, I had to face the fact that I could not protect her. How could I help her if armed men suddenly found her, if Jennifer Lowe suddenly walked through the door? What could I do, throw a beer bottle at them? (An empty one, of course.) No one who had ever counted on me had been rewarded for it.

  I took the last sip from my beer—which I’d somehow managed not to spill—and sighed, looking down at Rebecca. She seemed comfortable, contented. Yet, was she safe? Did she know the person in whom she had placed her confidence had managed to disappoint every woman he’d even been with, going back to Suzen in kindergarden? That was another question that I pondered for a minute, then dropped and decided to just get on with my life.

  Just then, Rebecca stirred but did not awaken. I felt a pulse of heat leave her body—the laptop and TV turned themselves off, and all the door locks and window latches in the apartment clicked shut.

  * * *

  Being Jennifer Lowe isn’t as easy as you would think. I was having a late night—a late, lonely, frustrating night. All my powers, all my money, all the planning, and still, I couldn’t find one stinking woman: the B.I.B. And now Rebecca would have to be dealt with, abandoning me when I needed her most, that little bitch. Dealing with all these small minds every day could really suck. Why couldn’t they just listen and keep up with me? Sometimes I hated these powers. Life had been so much easier before they came and screwed up my life. Of course, the depression, drugs, and suicidal tendencies hadn’t exactly been a picnic either..

  The lounge was nearly empty and slowly putting itself to bed. Recorded jazz played quietly in the background. In between
glances at me, the bartender began cleaning up. Who could blame him for his quick looks? But I could tell there would be no satisfaction at all from him. He wouldn’t last a minute. I was after more challenging prey.

  I sat at the bar nursing a pink martini while the net of my tight, low-cut dress trawled the waters of the lounge around me. A few seconds later, two small fish took notice. The two young executives were clearly not far removed from college, but, by the look of their expensive new suits, now had high incomes to enjoy. I knew the type: these boys had outgrown their little co-ed girls, and were ready for a real woman now—a woman in her thirties, in her sexual prime. Their success had made them out grow the co-ed girls of their college days and centered their interest on ‘real’ women. A woman in the sexual prime of her thirties was just the ticket. A woman who really knew what she was doing.

  The confident, blond-haired one stared at me, as if he were planning to test drive his first Ferrari. His dark-haired companion just whispered and giggled, not as far removed from his college antics. They spoke softly knowing a normal woman would never be able to hear, but I had waved good-bye to normal a long time ago. “So? Are you gonna talk with her?” the dark haired one prodded his friend.

  The blond ignored his friend watched as one shoulder strap of my dress began a slow, “accidental” slide down my shoulder. That did it. He finished his drink in one swallow, then stood up. “Let’s go. You and me, numb nuts, bet she does both of us.”

  “Hey, man, I ain’t no freak.”

  The blond thought for a moment, then a disgusted sneer came to his lips. “Oh, no, not a threesome. I’ll do her, then she’ll do you. Tits like that, I’ll bet she could do the entire Atlantic fleet.”

  The dark-haired one had no idea what that really meant, as it was devoid of any logic, but it contained the word tits and implied that he was about to get lucky, so he smiled. “Okay,” he said, rising and following his friend. But a few steps into my net, he stopped his blond friend with an arm on the shoulder. “What if she’s married, man? Then what?”

  The blond smiled and slid his friend’s hand off his shoulder. “Do I look like I give a fuck?” The blond smiled confidently then turned and marched up to his new Ferrari, keys in hand, while his friend watched.

  When I turned and reeled the blond in with my usual smile, the other man smiled too and joined him in the net. I could feel the billions of fingers of energy hopefully beginning to form on the surface of my skin, eager to find a connection in this doubtful pair.

  I thought of Logan and the B.I.B. I could sense his connection to her in the way he acted—hell, the very way he lived and breathed. The friggin’ B.I.B. memorial website, I thought bitterly. I was twice the woman she was. I tried to imagine how it would feel to release all this energy inside of me. What connection did I lack that had turned me into this miserable, frustrated sexual predator?

  Maybe Logan was the answer. With the B.I.B. out of the way and her mark removed, he could free me. I thought about it; hell, I fantasized about it as I rubbed my hand down along the inside of my thigh as I led these two little fish off to my room.

  Chapter 30

  We’re Blown

  When I woke up the next morning, I was still backed into the corner of the sofa, but Rebecca was gone, leaving only a warm pillow on my lap and a handwritten note on my chest. I widened, then squinted my eyes to focus on the letters she had penned. It was too short to be a recipe for world peace, too long for my mother’s lasagna. Finally, I put together that this was a shopping list for things Rebecca needed; it seemed she was planning to move in.

  I battled briefly with the thought of how this chick was suddenly dominating my life, but part of it felt right. It was good to be of value to someone, and not just a fuck up. Besides, the apartment looked great, and it’s easier to mess up something that’s clean.

  I leapt to my feet like a panther—a constipated one, or maybe an old one with a bad knee, but a panther nonetheless—to see my laptop on the dining room table flashing the B.I.B. website. The site appeared to be updating itself, but I knew it was Rebecca doing her thing. (So much for changing the site’s passwords.) Through the closed bathroom door came the sounds of water falling, then gurgling as it drained in the shower. Rebecca was the ideal of a multitasker: showering, updating the website, and probably fixing a communication satellite, all while she brushed her teeth and emailed the president.

  For a lifelong letch, it was surprising that I had no desire to take a peek beyond the bathroom door. Even so, I could see the large amount of steam coming out from around the bathroom door. I guessed that Super Born heat made even a shower challenging.

  I ran my hand through my hopeless hair and pretended that would put it all in place. As I grabbed my keys, I found the vision of a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast on my kitchen counter. There was another note; apparently, Rebecca was a “noter.” It read, “For you, my hero. Coffee is in the pot.”

  I have a pot? I wondered. This chick thing’s not all bad. By the time I discovered a pot of freshly brewed coffee, right on my kitchen counter the plate was empty save crumbs. I tossed it in the sink and found a cup, sugar bowl, and spoon awaiting me. Sweet. As I poured the cup and turned to leave, the garbage disposal came to life for a second, as did the dishwasher. After a quick, ‘what the hell’ I realized the Princess wanted to speak with me

  I tapped on the bathroom door. “I’m gonna go get your stuff. Be back soon.”

  “Okay,” she yelled. “Thanks, Be careful.”

  “Don’t let anybody in.”

  “Duh!”

  * * *

  I hip hopped to my car, still enjoying the memory of breakfast. It was a different experience for me, as I usually started my day with nothing more than the hang-on taste of beer in my mouth.

  I pulled out into the road, and smiled when I identified a dark-colored sedan pull out after me. That turned quickly to an open-mouthed frown when a second car with two men in it began following both of us. Who were these guys? Were they doubling up on me?

  Rebecca’s list was not long, so I made no attempt to hide from them and did my shopping, plus a donut—okay, two. I bought one for Rebecca as well (it just didn’t make it to Rebecca, that’s all).

  When I returned, I watched in the mirror as one, then two, cars parked down the road after me. When a black SUV took its turn parking behind the first two. I hurried into the apartment. I set the bags down on the kitchen counter and snuck a peek around the closed drapes in the living room window. On the street on the other side of the apartment was another black SUV with tinted windows just like the first I had seen.

  Rebecca came in—by now, her hair and makeup were done, so she distracted my eye from the window for a moment. “What’s up?” she asked, moving up behind me. She smelled great, and the petite but noticeable cushions of her breasts teased into my back. I’m sure it was unintentional, but why do chicks always do that? Don’t they have any idea what string of thoughts and events that little maneuver starts in a guy?

  “I’m not sure. It looks like there’re three or four cars out there watching us.”

  “Think they know I’m here?” she said in a whisper.

  “Could be that. But it could be they’re after me to tell them where the B.I.B. is. Either way, something is going to happen. Is there anywhere else you can go?”

  “I have a friend…”

  “No friends, no relatives, no one they can trace.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t want to leave you alone. They could kill you.”

  “Killing both of us appeals to you more? No, I’m gonna get you out of here. We’ll wait till tonight. I’m gonna sneak you out through the basement.”

  “We both should go. You can’t do any good here anymore.”

  She didn’t convince me. “Pack your stuff. We’ll leave when it’s dark.” “And to think, I even bought new sheets.”

  Chapter 31

  She’s Not the B.I.B.

  I watch
ed the comings and goings through the windows all day. When the sun was gone, I gathered as much cash as I could find. (One bit of helpful advice: don’t hide cash when you’re drunk. You’ll never remember where it is.) I dressed us both in the darkest clothes I could find and gathered her stuff in a bag I used whenever I went to the gym. (That being the case, the bag was new and unused.) The hall led to the basement, which had a door I’d never used—I wasn’t even sure it would open. It was hidden by brush outside, though, so if it did open, I figured it would give us a good escape portal.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Rebecca.

  I guess I should have kept an eye out the front window, because the instant I opened the door and stuck my head out, I was greeted by three men in black. Then three more appeared down the apartment hall behind them. Not one had a pleasant look on his face. Each slung a compact but mean-looking assault rifle slung over his shoulder, hanging down at his waist, and pointing at me.

  “Going somewhere?” said Carmine Camino, fresh off the front page of the newspaper, the leading suspect in the beer truck explosion that had almost killed the B.I.B. He was the only one who didn’t have his gun at the ready.

  I backed back into the apartment, holding Rebecca behind me. The six of them followed me in. “Nice shit hole you have here,” Carmine said, looking around at my place. When he caught me glancing at the windows, he added, “Don’t even think about it. There’s four more of us outside waiting. You’re not going anywhere…anywhere I don’t want you to go.” He moved toward Rebecca as the others surrounded her. “So this is her, huh?…The ‘B’ fucking ‘I.B.’”

  “What? You think she’s the B.I.B.?” I asked, astonished and a bit relieved. “Don’t you look in the papers, or at my website?” I turned to the laptop, which Rebecca turned on, and surfed to the picture of the B.I.B. “That look like her to you? If she was the B.I.B. you’d be splattered over the walls by now. This is my…girlfriend, Rebecca. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Carmine checked the laptop picture and several others on the site. From beside him, Dennis Mastrangelo, the thug who had bragged to the paper about cutting the B.I.B. with a knife during the Tony “The Tool” escape attempt, chimed in. “It ain’t her, boss.” When Carmine was satisfied, he gave a mean look at one of his men, and the big thug shrugged apologetically.