by Jack Bristol
That one percent though, they purr like a cat with a mouthful of your pet parakeet. They know they're beautiful. They've been hearing that particular fairytale all their lives, so it must be true.
Not this one, though. Miss Amy Hart, Professor of English Literature, sets her lips in a hard line and says, "So they tell me. But I find people so unreliable."
It's very Homer Simpson the way I'm standing here, mouth sagging open, a thin stream of drool—
Okay, no drool. But I've got the Homer duuuuuuuh look going on.
C'mon, SFH, snap out of it. Comeback—pronto!
"Why so cynical, baby?"
She laughs. What a sound. "I'm not your baby."
"I call everyone baby."
"Sure you do. Because it saves having to remember names—am I right?"
What can I say, she's got me. Fact is, 'baby' is one of these things guys call girls when they've forgotten their names or can't be bothered knowing it to begin with. It's a placeholder, because we've got to call you something. Maybe some guys can work up to an orgasm wordlessly, but not me. I like to talk dirty. And when you talk dirty to a girl, you've got to call her something.
So. Baby.
This conversation is already taking sharp turn down a dirt road.
Not that dirt road—an actual dirt road.
She turns around. My gaze snaps to her ass. Ug—me want.
"What can I say, I meet a lot of girls. Do you remember everyone's name?"
"I try to."
"How's that working out for you?"
A smile tugs at her mouth's perfect pink corners. "Some days are better than others."
"Do you have a method?"
"For remembering names?" She gives me a funny look. One that says I'm a couple of beers short of a six-pack.
"Just curious. Some people have systems for remembering things. The old My Very Excellent Mother Just Sent Us Nine Pizzas."
She tilts her head.
"You never heard that one? What planet have you been on?"
Remember this moment, folks. It's going to be important one day soon.
"Enlighten me," she says, folding her arms. They build a perfect frame for those squeezable, suckable tits. My cock agrees enthusiastically.
"The order of the planets in our solar system." I tick them off my fingers. "Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto."
I say Uranus the old way, because inside every man is the boy he used to be. And that boy finds Uranus funny. This whole you-ra-nus is a buzzkill.
"Pluto isn't a planet."
I shrug. "So they tell me. I'm not buying it. But that's cool. The world needs people like me."
"Wow, a man who's okay with being wrong? There's a first."
Uh oh … "Are you … a lesbian?"
A sharp gasp. Those big, brown eyes get round, those eyebrows high. "God," she says, "you're such a pig. I turned you down, so now you're calling me a lesbian? Typical. No—stereotypical."
My mouth is known for doing its own thing. Sometimes it likes to hurl me into boiling hot water. Take right now, for instance. It opens right up and says, "You don't have to call me God when it's just the two of us, baby."
Those big, shiny baby browns shrink to wicked slits. "Time for you to leave, Mr Hero."
"What's the matter? Can't handle the witty repartee?"
"Only one of us finds you witty and amusing, Mr Hero, and it's not me."
Game over. I'm never getting in her panties. If she's even wearing any. Now that I think about it, there's a distinct lack of lines under that tight skirt.
"We're not done, you and me."
"Yes," she says, "We are. It's nice that you saved me, and I'm grateful. Now move on."
In the distance, there's a reluctant stampede approaching. Must be her next class.
Time for the last word, then a quick flight back to the furniture store before lunch is over. What to say, what to say …
Got it.
"She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies."
"Byron, Mr Hero?"
I fling my biggest grin in her face. Never let them see you freaking out, my friends. Suffer behind a happy mask while you plot your next move. If you're going to mope, do it at home.
Then I leap out the window.
Yes, it's open. I always check. Because that one time you don't …
Ten
"Why'd you ask that thing earlier?"
That's Ethan. It's taken him this long to formulate a question longer than "Huh?"
"Just curious, man."
He snorts. "Woman turn you down?"
I shrug. "It happens." Like, never.
"Yeah, right."
"I'm just like any other poor bastard."
"She a dyke?"
Never did answer that, did she? But I'm guessing no. My gaydar is highly calibrated to eliminate all the ladies who prefer ladies. That's another superhero's bailiwick. I'm arrogant and I'm a pig, but I'm not stupid. I'm not asshole enough to think my cock is magic. Okay, it kind of is magical when it comes to straight and bi girls, but I like to think some of that sparkly dust is me, Super Fucking Hero—not just my pole.
Sorry, big fella.
"Nope. Just not that into me."
"Bitch," he says. Standard response from guys like Ethan. Anyone who won't bend over and surrender the pink is a bitch or a lesbian. Which is later modified to the ever-so-charming "whore" if the girl in question bats those eyelashes at a guy higher on the evolutionary chain than the Ethan-type.
"Nah. Just one of those things, man. It's cool. She wasn't anything special."
BAM! Another standard man defense. Girl doesn't want you, kick her down a notch. She wasn't all that. You were horny and she was there. Nothing more.
Ethan bobs his combination head-shoulders. "Word."
* * *
I'm down to twenty-seven hours.
Hey, I had to sleep on the problem, then work. I'm not one to ditch work unless I'm sick.
I never get sick. Part of the superhero perks package.
At the moment, I'm facedown on the couch, feeling sorry for myself. Be honest: I'm good at it, aren't I? Have you ever seen a more pitiful creature? All I'm missing are the snot bubbles and REM's greatest hits on replay.
If that doesn't make a guy slash his wrists, nothing will.
Anyway, Mrs Margarita's third eye must have x-ray vision, because next thing I know she's bustling through my front door carrying a tureen of soup.
"Get up, Super Fucking Hero. I bring soup."
"I don't want to get up," I tell the couch cushion.
"It is my avgolemono soup."
"I'll be right back," I tell the cushion.
Not just anything could leverage me off the couch, but Mrs Margarita's egg and lemon soup? I'm not sure which wonder of the world it is, but it's definitely one of them.
I follow her into the kitchen, hangdog expression hounding my face. She's helping herself to my kitchen, which is a-okay with me. The old Greek woman is the closest thing I've got to family. There are others—family members, that is. But they quit sniffing around when they realized not only were not going to score any of my parents' money, but I wasn't going to use it, either. To them I'm a dumbass loser.
Suits me. They suck, anyway. If you met them you'd understand.
Who knows, maybe you will.
"What happened to you?" Mrs Margarita says, ladling her miracle soup into one of my mother's fine china bowls. "What did the SuperCouncil say?"
"They gave me forty-eight hours to bone the professor chick or they're stripping away my superhero suit and powers."
"How many hours left?"
"Twenty-six. And a half."
Bowl, spoon, napkin. My Alfred has got me covered. I'd hug her but we don't do hugs.
"Did you see her?"
I give her the abridged version, leaving out the glorious descriptions of the professor's rack and ass.
"And she did not fall
into your arms? Who can believe it?" The old woman shakes her head, but her lips are all lit up with a smile. "You think you know women because doing the sex with them comes easy, but you know nothing."
"Nothing? Like, at all?"
"Okay." She measures an inch in the air with her thumb and finger. "Maybe a little. But not much."
"So what should I do?"
The soup is already putting me in a better mood. I'm see the tunnel now. There's no light at the end—yet. But it's slightly less gloomy.
"Maybe you should be honest with the poor woman. Tell her your problem."
I feel my jaw fall into the dumbfounded, mildly horrified position. "But, then she'd screw me because she feels sorry for me. That's a … a … a pity fuck! Super Fucking Hero doesn't do pity fucks."
"Okay, so let them take your fancy costume and your magic. Your choice. You will be Hunter Forrester, furniture delivery boy."
"I guess I could get a different job."
"Ha! You did not go to college, remember?"
Wrong. I went to college. Just not for long, that's all. "So, telling her. That would work?"
"It is better than tricking the poor woman into bed with you."
Inside my head, something that looks like a Rubik's Cube—but isn't—starts to twist and turn. This is me formulating a plan. Cool, huh?
"We don't usually make it to the bed," I mumble.
"I know. This is the very bad thing about having the third eye. Too often I see things that I can never unsee."
"Do I at least look good while I'm doing it?"
"Ugh. Enough. Eat your soup."
Pig. I know.
So. My plan. I'm going to march right up to Miss Professor's front door and say—
Eleven
"Are you even kidding me right now?"
No, that's not me saying that. It's her. The professor.
I'm standing on the doorstep of her townhouse in my full Super Fucking Hero regalia, pouring out my tale of woe, and she's looking at me like I told her my dog ate a year's worth of homework assignments.
Well, he did. But that was in high school. And he was more like a pet monkey.
Rusty has moved on to a better place now. He's part of a Las Vegas comedy act. I taught him things that aren't fit for decent people—so Vegas it was.
It beats euthanasia.
"It's true, I swear." Hear the whine in my voice? That's not me at all. I don't whine—ever. But this girl is driving me up crazy street. Did you ever watch that kids' show Caillou? That little bald fucker whines his way through the whole show—and it works! One hundred percent of the time, whining pays off for that asshole.
But it's not working for me. This girl really knows blatant attempts at manipulation when she sees them.
Something I've learned about her in the past five minutes: As soon as she gets home from work, she changes into pajamas. She's wearing these cow print winter pajamas that somehow manage to do insanely hot things to her body. When she leans against the doorjamb, the shirt rides up, giving me a good look at the curve of her waist. She's slender, perfectly toned, and somehow—even though it's winter—she's lightly tanned.
If I were a foodie, I'd liken her to a perfectly baked bread loaf.
But I'm just a regular horny bastard with a cock that's dying to take her to Pound Town.
No, that's not on a map.
I take it back. Google tells me there's a town in Wisconsin called Pound.
"Don't get me wrong," she says, "you're very entertaining. I especially love the part where you're putting all the blame on me. That's just great. I teach English literature, and yet I'm responsible for the fall of a superhero? Yeah, right."
"Not the Fall. A Fallen superhero is something else entirely. But the neutralizing? That's all on you, baby. You said no. You started this."
"So you're here to coerce me into changing my mind?"
"You make it sound so … rapey."
She quirks an eyebrow. "That's because it is."
Jesus Christ. This girl. I would never.
"No. No. If you say no, that's it. I go home and wait to be neutralized. End of story. I would never cross that line. I'm Super Fucking Hero, not Super Fucking Villain."
"Okay," she says passively. "Go and do that then."
The door slams in my face.
Shit.
Twelve
My next mission is a problem. Not just because neutralizing is certain, thanks to a combination of the professor's stubbornness and my inability to seduce a woman in any normal, real life way.
See me sitting up on that light post, chin balanced on my hand? If I remind you of that sculpture by Auguste Rodin, that's not accident. Like Rodin's Thinker, I'm thinking.
Below me at the intersection of those two narrow city streets, there's about to be a carjacking.
Well, there won't be, because I'll be flying in to save the day. But still, there's about to be an almost-carjacking.
The carjacker isn't much more than a kid. He's the runt of the gang. Skinny white kid. Keeps hoisting his pants up. Those tattoos he's sporting look peel-off. They're designed for a man, not this brat. Stuffed down the back of his pants is a gun I'm not sure he knows how to use.
I followed him here as soon as Mrs Margarita gave me the heads up. For him, this is an initiation. Scare the girl, steal the car, earn the respect of his fellow bottom-feeding scumbags. But if I don't intervene, two people are leaving the scene in body bags.
See, the girl's toting her own gun, at least according to Mrs Margarita's third eye. And she's gonna blow this kid's head off—but not until after his own weapon discharges.
Nasty business.
I hate carjackings. Every single time, they drag me back to that night.
Seven years ago. Late June. Hot evening, so the windows should have been up, the air conditioning on, but Mom being a woman who preferred fresh, warm air to the artificial spring, insisted her driver roll the windows down.
They pulled up to an intersection a lot like this one, and waited for the red light to flash green.
What they got was the flash from the muzzle of some asshole's shotgun. He wanted the limo, they were in the way. Eyewitnesses said he didn't give them the opportunity to bail.
The police never caught the guy. The witnesses were all the same shade of vague (male, early twenties, backwards cap, gold chain. The usual thug costume that year), so all they had was a description of a large chunk of the young guys in the city.
They found the limo abandoned in the suburbs. A nice area filled with young upwardly mobile families. My mother was dead in the back seat. Her driver in the passenger side.
Case never closed, only abandoned.
I've tried to pick up the threads, but there's nothing. And that nothing leads to more nothing.
If I ever find him …
Dead meat is just his first stop to hell.
The SuperCouncil—of COURSE—have their own guidelines regarding revenge. It goes something like …
No. Never ever. Don't. Revenge means instant neutralizing.
That's if the revenge-taker doesn't Fall first.
Usual disclaimer: It's different if you're one of the big dogs, one of the guys with their own movie/television/comic book franchise.
Maybe I need to see somebody about putting my story down on paper, along with colorful illustrations. I'd look goooood on that page.
Hey, just being honest.
Anyway, two lives are about to intersect in five … four … three … two …
Here comes the red Chevy. It jerks to a stop at the red light.
Cue the Eminem wannabe's entrance.
"Get out of the car, bitch!"
"What did you just call me? You did not just call me bitch, motherfucker!"
Oooo … she's got a mouth on her. My cock is suddenly aching to stuff those words back down her throat. I love a girl who isn't afraid to reel out a string of filthy words while I'm fucking her. Tell me my cock is huge and how your pussy can ba
rely take it; tell me you're my ass-whore, my cunt, my cum-guzzling suck-slut. Describe what you want me to do to you in grimy, descriptive—
Fuck. My cock and balls need to shoot something. The professor's got them all riled up.
Time to get this party started before the bullets fly.
From the top of the light pole I dive-bomb the scrawny bastard, knock him to the ground. Now he looks like roadkill, minus the tire tracks.
Easy pickings. Zero challenge.
Within seconds, I've got him cuffed and dumped on the police station's doorstep, two blocks away. Then it's back to give the grateful girl a chance to thank me properly.
She's beautiful in that I-just-fell-off-a-stripper-pole way. Big, fake boobs. Lashes wearing a winter coat of mascara. Full war paint. Calling her skirt a mini would be a serious understatement. It's more like a belt with ambition. And she's wearing thigh-high boots with heels tall enough and sharp enough to stab a man through the heart.
I want her on my cock ten minutes ago, because man, she looks like the filthiest kind of fun.
"Are you a superhero?" she purrs.
"Sure am, baby."
"Cool. I've never met a superhero before." Her fingers are dancing up the front of my suit. They linger on the F. "What's the F stand for?"
So I tell her.
She reaches down and grabs a handful of cock. "Mmm, you're a big boy."
And getting bigger by the minute.
Take that, SuperCouncil.
Take that, Professor Amy.
Thirteen
Except I'm not fucking the girl I'm fucking. My dick is pounding the shit out of Sally Stripper's ass, but my head puts me balls deep in the professor. Balls deep in her hot, sweet mouth, if you must know.
One, because I want to see Professor Amy shut up and suck. Two, because I want to see those dark, bottomless, frigging beautiful eyes looking up at me while I bang the bottom out of her throat.
And I want her to enjoy it.
No—to love it. To crave my cock on those lonely nights when sleep won't come.
But first, I want to play with her pussy, lick and tease until she's a wet, happy mess. I'm going to make it so good for her that she'll wish she'd fallen into my arms that first night.
