Peter just listened, drinking his coffee, and blushing.
“I want to add that the urge gets even worse when you blush like that. Stop it.”
He calmly set his cup down and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “What time do your parents and sister come home today?”
Oh, fuck it.
I slid to the end of the bench, hoisted my bag over my shoulder in one-and-a-half seconds, and literally reached down to grab hold of Peter’s jacket collar, so I could hoist him up, wide-eyed and blinking (and still blushing). “Get your damn bag,” I said. He did, and I dragged him out of the coffee shop and hightailed it back home, my hand still fused to his jacket collar. Anyone who watched us probably thought that I was about to turn in some juvenile delinquent to the cops or his parents.
I guess the upside to perpetually frustrated teenage boy hormones was the fact that, while going all the way was still a big no-no, hand jobs and never-ending sloppy kisses weren’t. After round number three, my bed threatened to sue me for psychological trauma. I guess that was expected since I completely forgot to bring out my old clean towels and use them to protect my bed. But that was also what happened when a boy’s natural horniness stayed pent-up for too long. It was like tunnel vision with the tunnel being about two inches wide.
We lay in my bed for a bit, a sweaty, sticky, tangled mess, but totally all afterglow-y. It was nothing but small talk for the rest of the time, with Peter giving out vibes of complete relaxation and relief. I’d ask him how he dealt with his own pent-up horniness, but I figured that his situation was a lot more complicated than mine, and I didn’t have enough brain cells left to absorb the details.
I’d have to say that it was nice, just lying there, holding each other and talking about silly, useless stuff. I’m not sure, but I think we even somehow managed to degrade ourselves to icky baby talk for a few moments. If my bed could talk, it’d add that to its charges (“Gross schmoopy baby talk for ten minutes! What the Hell’s wrong with kids nowadays?”) When Peter finally left to turn into Calais and keep an eye out for trouble, I was so mellow that I didn’t recognize myself. In fact, when everyone came home late that afternoon, Mom thought that I was coming down with the flu, and I had to run as fast as I could back to my room before she thought of jamming our old thermometer up my ass because we hadn’t replaced the oral one, which Dad accidentally broke.
Chapter 4
The following afternoon found me in the library—more specifically, one of the quiet study rooms that kept outside noise from messing up a person’s concentration. Those things were invented for ADD types, I think.
Anyway, I sat at the round table, scrunched up against Althea as we looked over possible video games we could mess with. She brought her laptop, and so did Ridley, who hung around with us. He was a bigger geek than either me or Althea, so we depended on his suggestions.
“I like this one,” he said. “I’m really into monster games or haunted house games, but most of them tend to be way too gory for me. I guess I’m just a wuss when it comes to that, which makes me wonder why I’m a superhero in the first place if I can’t handle violence well.”
“Dude, you’re a superhero because your parents went to those crazy geneticists, who screwed you and your parents over,” Althea said in a monotone. What a pal!
“Yeah, but still—you’d think that they’d at least do something about my anti-violence genes, right?” Ridley paused, looking up from his laptop and staring at us. “I don’t even know if anti-violence is genetic.”
“Actually, that makes sense in your case,” I said. “You’re a defense hero, not like everyone else. Your powers are for protection, not destruction.”
Ridley pursed his lips for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Too bad it makes me kind of a sucky authority on video games, though.” He grinned.
“I don’t care too much for the gory violent stuff, anyway,” I said. I said nada about Troll Warrior, by the way. “I know that Peter’s the same.”
“Okay. Then what do you guys think of this one?” He moved his laptop to show us, and we frowned at the screen.
“Hey, that sounds pretty cool,” Althea said. “Wait. Let me check that out on my laptop.” A few seconds of keyboard madness later, Althea and I were on the same page as Ridley, and we three were all geeking out over the game.
“Dr. Morbid’s Castle of Blood,” I said out loud. “Just the name itself is a winner to me. So what’s it about?”
We fell silent for a moment as we read through the game description. It looked like the game was a horror twist on familiar fairy tales, which involved some violence. From the game’s website, the idea was to follow the course of each fairy tale in order to level up, destroying the characters because they were all mutated monsters and ghouls till we reached the happily-ever-after part. And that one involved ridding the kingdom of demonic forces that had turned all the princesses, princes, dwarves, crazy-ass stepmothers, etc., into man-eating monsters. Of course, destroying those demonic forces didn’t mean resurrecting all the characters we destroyed along the way and have them move around in their normal, un-possessed state, but I suppose the game was made for totally cynical kids who plain hated fairy tales and their boring happily-ever-after stories.
I straddled the fence there, but I wasn’t going to say no to destroying Cinderella because I couldn’t stand her and all the stories that’d ever been written as knockoffs of that dumb fairy tale. Maybe because it hit way too close to home as far as the Plath household was concerned.
I sat back in my chair, thinking. “Hmm. That sounds kind of simplistic. It’s like one of those linear hack-and-slash type of games.”
Ridley shrugged. “Sounds like it, but maybe we should check out user reviews first and find out what’s going on.”
The reviews were mixed but mostly positive. I was right when I said that the game sounded too simplistic, but the idea behind it intrigued me. It sounded fun, and it was obscure enough for me to want to mess with it even more. And people could also choose which fairy tale to explore, the game company offering six different ones.
“So do you think you can tweak with the program to make it a more 3-D kind of game, Althea?” I asked after a while.
She glared at me, and I pressed myself against her even more. I even rested my head against hers, which was a little difficult since she was short. The things I did to pretend sweetness. Depending on how badly wired she was when it came to justice, I expected to stay like that for a while, eventually petrifying my neck muscles, just for the sake of getting on her good side.
“Look, I can’t mess with a fixed program on a permanent basis,” she said after several failed attempts at dislodging me. If anything, I pissed her off further by letting out little puppy whimpers whenever she tried to shake me off. “Maybe during a game, I can assimilate myself into the system and make the game-playing more authentic, but it’s only good for that session. Know what I mean? That’s the extent of my computer-possessing powers, you criminal.”
I sighed and sat up. Damn.
“Well—why can’t you just buy Peter a game and then treat him to something like that every once in a while?” Ridley piped up. “I mean, sure, it’s not as good as if it’s permanently tweaked the way you want, but at least for those times when you’re in the mood for super-enhanced game-playing, it might be worth it. Peter’s not a high maintenance kind of guy, anyway. I’m sure that getting a new game for him to play with here and there is enough for him.”
I made a face and scooted my chair away from Althea to think things over. “I’ll have to consider it,” I said after a while, feeling defeated. “It sounds like a good middle ground, yeah, but I’m having a hard time accepting the fact that a permanent tweak isn’t a good idea.”
“How about testing it out first?” Ridley asked. “You don’t even know if a temporary tweak would work.”
I looked at him, surprised. “Will you play with me if I do it?”
“It dep
ends. My parents have a pretty strict rule about game-playing.”
“I’ll do it,” Althea said. She sat back with her arms folded over her chest, her face a mask of pure concentration. “I mean, you can’t do anything unless I’m there, anyway, but I’m also getting all worked up over possible new abilities that might come out of it. Who knows where this might lead? The video game will be a testing ground, for sure, but whatever I get out of this can be applied to the usual superhero work that we do, right?” She looked at me and grinned, and I rolled my eyes. “And if it works out, maybe I can play with you guys a lot more for practice.”
“You know, you’re just as hopeless as I am,” I grumbled. “I might be predictable when it comes to doing something borderline illegal, but you’re no better in the squeaky-clean truth and justice sort of way.” At least I was more interesting, I thought. Althea probably knew it but didn’t want to admit it. Ha.
“Sticks and stones, bucko,” she said.
“I want to play this game now,” Ridley cut in, now sounding more hyper than before. He was practically bouncing in his chair. “I don’t care if it’s simplistic. I just want to blow the head off a mutated Rumplestiltskin—if not totally disembowel the slimy little motherfucker.”
So much for being a mellow, tree-hugging, peace-loving, defense superhero hippie.
* * * *
I never thought I’d live to see the day when walking home from the library bored me to tears. The happy-happy vibes up and down Vintage City continued, and it was like a creepy-ass stress-free zone. Seriously, where the hell were the criminals? This was getting really unnerving. The more cynical side of me would compare this to the “calm before the storm” thing.
Too bad I don’t have a non-cynical side because if I did, I’d have something to contrast that with. Oh, well. I guess the best way of looking at this would be “world-weariness” or something like that. Whatever it was that made people smarter than everyone else. Yeah, that.
I took my time walking home since I realized that I was still stuck where Peter’s gift was concerned. The whole game-tweaking bit was a genius idea, but Althea said that her powers didn’t go that far. Pfft. I didn’t know how much Mrs. Horace paid to have Althea’s genes fixed, but it looked like she was ripped off. Besides, while I’d appreciate Althea’s help, I didn’t want her there all the time. I guess I wasn’t a very good gamer-techie type who could think more critically about enhanced games and stuff.
So it looked like I was back to square one. Again. Frankly, at that point, I didn’t know how many times I ended up in square one, but it wasn’t a fun experience. I figured that Liz and Dad were right; maybe a simple romantic dinner and a nice time out that lasted way past our curfews was the best thing I could give Peter.
I was too grumpy, tired, and hungry and so took a quick detour and ended up at Dog in a Bun. The fast-food joint had completely settled down and even redecorated after being attacked by Arachnaman a while ago. That was good. I’d hate to see it go just because some stupid, genetically-manipulated bigot hated anyone who wasn’t like him. So I bought my usual—jumbo hot dog with catsup only, fried zucchini with ranch dressing, and a soda—and decided to find a quiet spot somewhere away from the downtown area but which was still a pretty safe place for a kid.
Not that I needed to worry about scum attempting to do me in, given the recent vacuum of excitement that was Vintage City’s days. Hell, even Dad said that Bambi Bailey was scraping the bottom of the barrel with her news reports. I think last night it was all about feuding mothers of five-year-old beauty contestants. Too bad I didn’t see that one.
I found a little open area near the Yee Apartments. It was a teeny little park-like place that was about half a block in size. It had a few worn out benches and a couple of picnic tables and nothing else but grass and five trees (I counted). There were lots of birds, though, flying or perching themselves on empty benches. Some were on the grass, doing what birds normally did when they were on grass. I’d no idea what that was other than scouting for worms or taking a massive crap on something.
I sat down on one bench and ate my afternoon meal, all brooding. I was so lost in my thoughts, in fact, that I didn’t realize that I wasn’t alone any more till something nudged my elbow.
“Wha..?” I almost jumped out of my skin. When I looked, I saw a cat sitting on the bench and staring at me.
I kind of just looked at it for a moment before tearing off a piece of my hot dog and setting it on a napkin that I carefully pushed in the cat’s direction. It stared at me for another second or two and then ate the hot dog after giving it a few suspicious sniffs.
I wasn’t a good judge of animal age, but it looked like the cat was the equivalent of a ten-year-old kid. It wasn’t a kitten, for sure, but it was still too small and too young-looking to be an adult-adult. It was also dirty and dusty, but I didn’t care. Since I’d already eaten half of the hot dog, I decided to give away the rest, though I ate the bun because I didn’t think that cats were supposed to eat carbs. I tore up the rest of the hot dog and gave it to my new buddy, who ate everything I set down, though it ignored the fried zucchini. I couldn’t help that last part; I felt sorry for the poor thing since it looked pretty thin and scruffy. I didn’t want to think about how it ended up there, alone, dirty, and hungry, because I didn’t want to bum myself out even more after my disappointment with Peter’s gift.
Once we were both done eating, I petted it and rubbed its chin. Its gray and white fur felt surprisingly soft and healthy even though it was covered in dirt. For a stray, I thought it acted surprisingly trusting of human strangers. I guess it was a good thing that it kinda-sorta bonded with me and not some unfeeling douchebag with shit for brains.
“I’m glad you enjoyed your meal,” I said, smiling. This was really nice and relaxing. “But I gotta go home. Be careful out here, okay?”
The cat just purred and rubbed itself against my hand before jumping off the bench and trotting off. I watched it go, feeling a little weird. I didn’t want it to go away and stay abandoned and subjected to cars, psychotic jerks who tortured animals, and the weather. I tried to shake off the feeling as I picked up my bag and then moved off toward home, dumping the paper bag and empty soda cup in a nearby garbage can. It was hard, but eventually I got over it.
I had to pass by Mrs. Zhang’s takeout place on my way home, so I decided to swing by and confirm my schedule for the week.
I crossed the street once I reached the corner where it was located, and just as I was about to enter, I heard tires screeching behind me and then a long, loud honking of a car’s horn. I hated car horns, by the way. They always made my skin crawl, and if I had fur, it’d all be standing and making me look like some kind of mammal blowfish on crack.
I turned around, frowning to glare at the stupid driver who did it, and I saw an old, worn out car stopped way before the corner, and the driver had poked his head out of the window and was yelling.
“Go on! Cross the street! Go! Shoo!” he yelled, even sticking an arm out to wave it.
My cat buddy was frozen in mid-crossing, staring at the car in what probably was kitty panic. It was like it had never seen a car before and didn’t know what to do next.
I quickly abandoned my spot and jogged over to the cat, picking it up and waving at the driver. “I got it,” I said, and jogged back to safety. The car sped away behind me.
“Look, you really shouldn’t cross the street like that,” I said, holding the dusty, scruffy, skinny little thing up and looking straight into its eyes while it hung from my hands like a wilted stuffed toy. It looked back, all alert and curious—like nothing life-threatening had just happened. “You could get yourself killed if you’re not careful.”
It started to wriggle, raising its hind legs and using them to claw away at my hands, so I put it down and opened my messenger bag, shoving stuff aside to make room. Oddly, the cat didn’t leave. It just sat there, watching me, its tail twitching and stuff.
“Mom and
Dad will probably kill me for taking you home, but maybe they’ll agree to a temporary room and board until we bring you to a shelter and get you all fixed up for adoption,” I said. “Obviously, you can’t survive out in the open, freezing like that in front of cars and stuff. Don’t know if you’re even aware of this, but that’s not how you do it. You run like hell.”
I picked up the cat and set it inside my bag, keeping the main flap open, so it could peek out and breathe. I carefully slung the bag cross-body and kept it against my front, so I could keep an eye on the little bugger, and the cat didn’t even panic or cry. It didn’t even try to jump out. It continued to shock me, the way it let itself get kidnapped like this without kicking up a major fuss.
I stared at the door to Mrs. Zhang’s takeout place. I guess that’d have to wait. I figured that bringing an animal inside would be a major no-no, so I carried on toward home. Along the way, I thought about what Brenda had told me about pets and responsibility and all that crap, and I started toying with the idea of maybe convincing Mom and Dad to let me keep the cat. If it meant not letting it out of my bedroom, that’d be fine with me. I sure wouldn’t want Liz to mess with its head with all kinds of crazy girlie things, especially when she was on the rag.
Besides, maybe there was a way of training the cat and turning it into the equivalent of a black belt karate expert in the way it protects itself and kills threats. A ninja cat for a pet would be so awesome.
* * * *
“Eric, you do realize that your cat’s got fleas after being a stray for so long,” Mom said, narrowing her eyes at me. She kept her arms crossed on her chest.
“Then I’ll take it to the vet for a cleaning and shots,” I said. The cat sat on my lap while I sat on the fourth step of the first flight of the stairs, blocking everyone’s way and making sure that I got their attention. So far it was just Mom. “I’ve got money in the bank. I’m sure it’s not that much to get that done.”
Dr. Morbid's Castle of Blood (Masks) Page 5
