Super F*cking Hero

by Jack Bristol

  "I'm Professor Hart. Professor Amy Hart."

  "It's good to meet you, Amy. Sorry it had to be like this."

  My gaze traverses her body, skimming those sweet curves.

  "You saved me."

  "I did."

  "They were going to rape me."

  "Well, they won't get that chance again."

  Her breathing is slowly returning to normal. "How did you know?"

  "It's what I do, baby."

  "Amy."

  Right. "Amy."

  This is the part where she's supposed to fall into my arms and onto my hard cock. Instead, she pulls a phone out of her handbag and punches a string of numbers I know belongs to the local cab company.

  "Hey now, I can fly you home—gratis."

  "I can't impose. You've done enough already."

  "No imposition. It would be my … pleasure." And hers.

  She gives the cab company her current location, then tucks the phone away.

  "It's not that I'm not grateful—I am …" She gives me a meaningful look. The one that says, 'Who the hell are you, anyway?'

  I'm an obliging—and confused—guy. "Super Fucking Hero."

  And what does she do? Laugh. The girl laughs. It's a wonderful sound—a lot how I imagine angels trumpeting—but still. She's laughing. Not with me—at me.

  "Super Fucking Hero? Really?"

  "Hey, I'm the good guy here."

  "I'm sure you are." She squints at me. "But … what is it that you do?"

  Now I'm getting defensive. My arms fold, my stance widens. See? Defensive.

  "I save girls from violent crimes."

  "Girls? That's infantilizing. I'm nearly thirty, Super Fucking Hero. That makes me a woman."

  Despite the bad rap I'm getting, my cock is fucking dying to leap out. He's banging his head against the suit.

  Undeterred, I rest my elbow on the wall and lean in, moving my mouth closer to her ear. She shivers under the heat of my breath. Progress, at last.

  "I'll call you anything you want, Professor Amy Hart. What say we get out of here, go someplace warmer?"

  My free hand roams to her waist. Her breathing quickens. Those dark eyes dilate. Fuck, she smells like hot chocolate, the kind with those tiny marshmallows. Beneath the sweetness there's that musky heat every straight, sexually active male recognizes. The scent of hot, wet, cock-hungry pussy.

  Oh yeah, she wants me.

  "My cab."

  "Cancel it."

  "My cab—it's here."

  She shoves me out of the way. "Thank you, Super Fucking Hero." Her lips twitch as she says it. "I do appreciate your help. Goodnight."

  Then she—and the cab—vanish into the night, leaving nothing behind but the thin smoky trail of pollution.

  Oh, and my blue fucking balls.

  The ache is radiating up my spine. All that testosterone wants to punch something then fuck it. Even that crack in the ground is starting to look good.

  My cell phone shivers.

  Mrs Margarita. Another girl's about to be in a world of hurt.

  Not if me and my cock can help it.

  Four

  Back in my lair-slash-apartment, I'm licking my metaphorical wounds with some downtime on the couch, a beer, and a piece of Mrs Margarita's spinach-and-cheese pie.

  The woman herself is the approximate age of dirt, with the fortitude of steel. Sometimes I get the feeling that she and the universe were created around the same time. She's tiny, gently rounded, and her entire wardrobe is black. Greek women turn to the dark side of the closet after their husbands die.

  Right now she's giving me the third degree.

  But that's cool, because I've got pie and beer.

  "What did I say? I say, 'Super Fucking Hero, this girl will not do the sex with you.' That is what I say. But did you listen? No. Because here you are crying into your weak, American beer. A Greek man would never drink a Coors Light."

  "What do Greek guys drink?"

  "The tears of their enemies."

  Is she kidding? I can't tell. That's the thing with Mrs Margarita; there's a sense of humor stuffed inside her fluffing coating, but it's often indistinguishable from her steel-clad admonishments.

  "Too bad I don't have any enemies."

  "Of course you have enemies. And a good thing, too. A man without enemies has not lived. Only through living—and living well—do we collect people who want to cut out our hearts and feed them to the gypsy dogs."

  She walks her own road does Mrs Margarita, and I get the distinct feeling it's paved with severed body parts.

  I put my feet up on the coffee table—my coffee table!—and she has the audacity to give them a dirty look.

  "All right then, who are my enemies?"

  Arms folded, her mouth falls into a satisfied line. "I will tell you, smarty pants. The people you put in jail."

  I wave a hand. "They're in jail."

  "Some of them, yes, but not all of them stay there. It is only a matter of time until they come looking for this Super Fucking Hero."

  "Okay, so that's one." By my reckoning at least. I can outwit those boneheads anyway. We're not talking major league villains, but idiots who don't have the smarts to take on real crime. If they really wanted to screw people over they'd get white collar jobs in the financial sector. "Who else?"

  "These women you do the sex with. Do not tell me not one of them is bitter about being used and dumped."

  "Hey, it's a reciprocal transaction!" I drag myself into an upright position, feet off the table. "I save them, they get to bump uglies with a sexy, gorgeous, mysterious superhero. How is that not awesome and fair?"

  Humph! That's what she gives me: Humph! That's not even a word. It's a sound effect.

  "What about your nemesis?"

  "Nemesis? What nemesis?"

  She pokes a finger at her bun-tortured head. "Think, boy. Think. Use your head—the one on your shoulders. You are a superhero. All superheroes have at least one nemesis."

  "I don't."

  "Of course you do. Nature likes balance. She does not make a superhero without also making a supervillain."

  "So it's ying and yang, that's what you're saying?"

  "Do I look like I speak the Chinese?"

  Let's see: black dress, black shoes, black knee-high stockings. No—I'm pretty sure—bra. Shudder. Long hair dragged back into a bun. Nope, looks like an old Greek grandma to me.

  I shake my head. "So you're saying I have an … an opposite? A Super Fucking Villain?"

  "Somewhere, yes."

  "Jesus." Horrible thought, isn't it? Out there somewhere is some asshole in whatever it is supervillains wear (probably leather), showing the ladies a bad time. "Great pie," I say, holding up the plate. Not much left of it now. A few crumbs. I'd lick them up if I was alone. But I'm not. So what do I do? Look at them mournfully and hope she gets the hint.

  "You want more spanakopita?"

  Head bobbing like a good doggie: "Yes, please."

  "It is in the kitchen. Go and get it if you want it."

  Definitely not an Alfred. That guy in the bat suit has no idea how easy he's got it. Nobody wipes my ass except me.

  I get some more pie—and make Mrs Margarita a cup of Greek coffee while I'm there—then it's back to the couch with my allegedly sissified beer.

  "So where is this guy, my nemesis?"

  Mrs Margarita closes her eyes. This, she's told me before, is so she can open her third eye. Apparently it can't see too well if the others are open. Once I asked her if it wears sunglasses when she goes outside, but she flicked my ear with her pointer finger and thumb.

  "You will meet him soon."

  "Soon tomorrow? Next week? Five minutes from now?"

  Please let him give me time to finish this pie and beer.

  Eyes still closed, she says, "Who knows?"

  "You know. You. You're my Alfred."

  She glares at me.

  "My Lois Lane?" Ewww, no.

  The glare is softening.<
br />
  "I know. You're the Brain to my Pinky."

  Now the poor woman just looks confused. "Stop before you injure yourself. Women, yes, I know when they are in danger. But this different. This is a nemesis we are talking about. Also, your SuperCouncil want to see you."

  Fuck. Fuuuuuuuuck.

  "How do you know?"

  She nods at my front door. Sure enough, someone bangs out five beats in a super-secret code.

  I take the beer with me. This beer and I, we're going everywhere together until it's finished.

  Let's hit the pause button for a moment. Nobody in this world—that I know of—goes superheroing alone. We may work alone, but there's still a higher power. And that power is the SuperCouncil.

  Council. Very Anglo of them. When you meet them you'll understand.

  They're kind of a governing entity. They assign jurisdiction (can't have too many superheroes in one place, otherwise things get weirdly competitive—go figure) and make sure we live up to our names.

  Otherwise …

  Let's just say there are stories. None of them end well.

  Back to the situation afoot. Sometimes I can't help being an ass. It's the boy in me.

  Don't look at me like that. Every guy's got the little bastard he used to be still living inside him somewhere. If you know any man intimately—not necessarily sexually—you've met his inner little bastard.

  Mine leans against the door, beer in hand, and says, "Who is it?"

  Silence. He's already seething, I can tell.

  Who? You're about to find out.

  "You know who it is," the guy on the other side of my front door says, sounding like he ate a fistful of helium-filled balloons. He didn't—that's how he always sounds.

  It's like Mike Tyson. That guy is big, tough. Taking on Mike Tyson is like playing chicken with a semi-trailer when you're riding a skateboard. But when he opens his mouth? Dude sounds like a lady.

  "No cookies," I say. "Thanks, though."

  "Super—Super—" He lowers his voice. No doubt after furtively glancing left and right in case of foot traffic. "Fucking Hero. It's me and you know it."

  "I know a lot of guys called me. I'm one of them."

  "Messenger Boy," he mutters. Uh oh, sounds like he's about to go Chernobyl.

  So I cut the guy some slack. I've toyed with him enough. I fling the door open, and with a big, theatrical flourish, I invite Messenger Boy into my home.

  Two things.

  One:

  Ever see The Sound of Music? Remember that little Nazi bastard Rolf? The one who wanted to roll in the hay with the Captain Von Trapp's eldest daughter Liesl?

  Messenger Boy's costume bears an uncanny resemblance to Rolf's, while he was still delivering telegrams.

  Thing number two: The names we're assigned are our names for life—or until retirement. You don't get to be Wall Puncher one week, Superman the next.

  A quick aside in a story filled with asides: There is, in fact, a Wall Puncher. He works for the New York Fire Department. They find him useful to have around, in case someone's trapped behind, you know, a wall.

  In Messenger Boy's case, he joined the SuperCouncil's cause when he was just a kid. Now he's staring down the barrel of forty, and he's still Messenger Boy.

  It's a tough break.

  Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

  He wafts into the room like a malodorous odor in his WW2 era telegram delivery outfit ala Rolf. Mrs Margarita, I notice, has vanished. Shows how much she thinks of Rolf—uh, Messenger Boy, too.

  "I can't believe a shitstain like you lives in a place like this."

  That's what he says. In my castle.

  Anyone else and I'd show him the door that looks suspiciously like a window. Mostly because it is a window. A huge window. But all my windows are huge.

  Oops. I haven't told you about my place, have I? I forget these things. I don't really define myself by where I live or what I do when I'm not fucking extremely grateful, beautiful girls.

  It's a penthouse. Yawn. How very every story ever—right? Rich guys who live in penthouses are littering the pages of popular literature all over the place these days. You can't throw a rock in a bookstore without hitting one. Unless it's a Borders. Throw all the rocks you like in there. I can guarantee you won't hit a single book.

  Anyway. Penthouse. The entire floor, natch. It belonged to my parents. After my mother was killed, my father … Let's go with "flipped out."

  With Mom dead and Dad "flipped out," that left just me at home.

  In fact, I still sleep in my old room. I can't bring myself to get rid of their things, no matter how many years slide by.

  I buy a new TV regularly, though. And all the latest gadgets. It's harder to be a superhero without gadgets. I'm not from an alien planet like some of those guys. I need manmade things to keep in touch. Some of them come from places like Best Buy. The others … I have connections of the brilliant and innovative kind.

  Mrs Margarita lives on the floor below me. The whole floor. When he was alive, her husband was carpet. Now he's gone and she's got me. Lucky woman, I know.

  Honestly, I'm the lucky one.

  So, my place. It's impressive. To other people, at least. To me it's just home.

  "It's a hardship," I tell Messenger Boy, who, don't forget, just called moi a shitstain in my own home. "But someone has to do it. What do you want?"

  Like it's killing him, he retrieves an envelope from his messenger bag. For a moment I get a quick flash back to earlier in the evening when that sweet, grateful girl was slobbering on my cock. That selfsame cock twitches at the memory.

  He slaps the envelope on my chest, right where the capital F goes. "The SuperCouncil wants to see you."

  "I'll call and make—"

  "Ha-ha. No. Appointment's made. Seven p.m. tomorrow." Then he's gone like the fart he is.

  Shit. Fuck. Piss. Goddamn SuperCouncil.

  I tear into the envelope like a wild man. It's one of those fancy things made of recycled toilet paper or something equally artsy fartsy. Which means it's lumpy and chunky and probably costs more per box than a seat at the SuperBowl. Wiping with this thing now would be as comfortable as that ass bleaching some women do these days.

  I don't get it. But there's a lot I don't get. As long as the hole is willing, I'm in.

  Back to the letter. Sure enough, the SuperCouncil wants to see me. Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock.

  Reason?

  Not living up to my superhero name.

  Fuck. FUCK. That professor! My first fuckless "Thank you" in … EVER, and the SuperCouncil heard about it like this. Imagine me snapping my fingers, which is exactly what I'm doing.

  "What are you doing?"

  Oh look, it's Mrs Margarita, and she's come out of hiding. Convenient.

  "Snapping my fingers."

  "I see that. Why are you snapping your fingers?"

  "You make me feel like dancing?"

  "Go to bed," she says. "Get some sleep. You have to work in the morning."

  "Thanks, Alfred," I say. "Glad I've got you to take care of me."

  She leaves, muttering, "Alfred, Alfred," as she goes.

  Secretly she loves it.

  Bed. Now that Mrs Margarita has put the idea in my head, I'm yawning. I drain the beer, double-check my alarm, and spent the next few hours wrestling with the bedcovers.

  The SuperFuckingCouncil. They're gonna nail my cock to the wall. And that's if I'm lucky.

  Five

  Three in the morning. Can't sleep. Television on. Channel surf.

  I fucking hate this movie. Dirty Dancing.

  But that's what I wind up watching. I can't help it. I love Jennifer Grey's old nose. She was cute. Fuckable. Now she's every other plastic girl with her cut-to-order nose.

  And Patrick Swayze is dead, so basically fuck this movie.

  I like the dancing, though.

  It's been a long time since I've danced with a girl. I haven't had a girlfriend since … well, since H
annah. Don't ask. It's not one of those stories with a happy ending. Girlfriends don't mix well with being Super Fucking Hero. Some of them claim to be openminded; hell, some of them even want to join in—those delicious creatures—but sooner or later they want to be the one and only.

  Sorry, ladies, but my life isn't built for one and onlys.

  I'm upfront about that. Completely, brutally honest.

  Thing is, honesty makes for clean, lonely living.

  Not that I'm completely alone. I've got Mrs Margarita.

  In fact, she's texting me right now. I can tell by the Twilight Zone chime. Must be time to slap on the suit and go.

  The suit. The costume. The outfit. Whatever you want to call it.

  There's a special room for it and all my superhero accessories and accoutrements. Want to see it?

  Of course you do. Let's not pretend you don't.

  C'mon then.

  Down the hall (dove-gray walls, lots of paintings and family photos; I try not to look), to what used to be one of the guest rooms. Now it's retrofitted to befit a modern superhero's needs. Wall of guns over there, wall of grenades, knives, and other deadly knick-knacks. Suits over there. Five of them. They're custom made by that same brilliant source I mentioned earlier. They feel like rubber, but they're some kind of lab-made fiber that breathes, flexes, and protects. Excellent stuff.

  Aaaaaand, a giant box of condoms. Thanks, Costco. Super Fucking Hero never leaves home without a handful. Next to those is a super-shooter full of lube my gizmo guy cooked up. Extra slippery. I said no, but he insisted. You never know, he told me. So, I took it.

  Time to put on the suit. Again.

  * * *

  "Oh, Super Fucking Hero …"

  I love it when they say my superhero name. Makes me feel powerful, in control, in complete command of their bodies. Which I am.

  I'm taking it slow, finger-banging her pussy while she grinds that perfect ass against my cock.

  "You beautiful little bitch," I say. "I'm gonna fuck that sweet ass."

  Her wet, hot insides clench around my fingers. Baby likes that, I can tell. Could be she's an ass virgin, but she's definitely digging the idea of me shoving my cock in her brown star.