by Jack Bristol
Several feet away, her minions are realizing they're the equivalent of a human sacrifice. Without their boss they seem smaller, younger. I kinda feel sorry for them.
Okay, I know they picked their team—but still.
They're kids, you know?
"Drop the weapons. Kick them over."
It's not easy as greased up as they are, but it's not long before all their weapons are whooshing my way.
The door to this room swings open, and a couple of our guys bust in. Security, it seems, has managed to dislodge its head from its ass. They take the goon squad into custody and begin the quick march away.
"What's going to happen to them?"
One of the Security guys hurls a few words over his shoulder. "That's not for you to worry about."
Except I am worried. I feel bad for those kids. One of them is dying. The other four could lose their friend.
Most guys over a certain age have got at least one story about an insanely hot chick who turned out to be poison. Girls and women aren't exempt. I bet a lot of you have got stories, too. The jealous, wall-punching guy, the emo, suicidal guy, and—my personal favorite—friendzone guy.
They fuck with your head, then spit you out, mangled and bruised, confidence shaken. So yeah, I sympathize with Super Fucking Villain's minions.
She used them, then she dumped them.
I swing back around to look at the SuperCouncil. They're getting over the evening's events quickly. Already they're stepping back into their smug shoes, sharpening their tongues. Readying their gardening shears for the big snip. Even with one member down, but not—by the looks of it—out.
Sam Johnson detaches from the group. He's one of the oldest members—which is saying something. Once upon a time, he soared through the skies as Traction Man. Now he's liver-spotted and what's left of his hair is an unforgiving combover.
"What's gonna happen to them?"
"They'll go down to processing, where we'll extract any information they know about Super Fucking Villain's setup and plans. Along with anything else we deem pertinent. After that, incarceration."
"But they're just kids."
"Mercy, Mr Forrester? They tried to kill you."
Straight into superhero position I go. Hands on hips, legs apart. Standing my ground.
"That's what separates us from them—the supervillains."
Viola Crowe—and her beehive—steps forward to join her molding, mildewing compadre. "The boy has a point. Unfortunately—" She turns to me. "—while this particular Super Fucking Villain is out there, we can't risk putting them back on the streets. Once she's defeated … they're free to go. Every Super Fucking Villain has a way of bonding with her minions. It goes with the suit and the title, I'm afraid." Her smile is pale. "Not our jurisdiction. Excuse me."
She blends back into the crowd of her SuperCouncil peers.
Sam coughs. "Under the circumstances, we … uh … we've decided your record is to be expunged. As of right now, actually. It is evident that the woman known as Super Fucking Villain manipulated the system in an attempt to destroy us."
"She used me."
"Uh, yes. You could say that."
"And you used me. I heard what the former Super Fucking Villain told her. You wanted her to come here—to flip her."
"Oh." He scratches his head. Got a guilty expression on his face like he just pissed on the floor. "Well, we do what we can to gain and maintain the advantage over evil. Sometimes that's unorthodox. I apologize."
"She got away."
"For now."
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't hunt her down and kill her."
"You could." Sam clasps my shoulder, steers me toward the door, away from his brethren. "But they're like us, the supervillains. Cut off one head and another rises in its place to pull on the old hat."
"Nothing new under the sun."
"Nothing new at all." He sticks out his hand. I accept the gesture. I just saved them, after all. "You saved us. Thank you, Super Fucking Hero—Hunter Forrester."
"I'm the one who brought her here. Ultimately, I'm responsible."
"Yes, but you overcame. No harm done."
Except one kid who'll never play football again. And the SuperCouncil's injured member. "What about the lobby? There was an explosion …"
"Ah. That. Every room in the SuperCouncil building exists in a different time zone, and sometimes in a different dimension. Like the supervillains, cut off one of our heads, we still have others. In the precise moment the lobby imploded, it was automatically replaced with one of its backups."
"Huh," I say. "That sounds like something you guys would do."
"It does, doesn't it?"
Twenty-Three
Let it be known that I didn't expect the SuperCouncil to give thanks in the customary way. That would be just so … ugh … wrong.
Twenty-Four
Belinda is standing at her post when I leave, clipboard in hand, rack firmly, beautifully in place. She smiles, but it's the general, impersonal smile she wears for everyone. "Have a good day!
"Thanks. You too."
Then she moves on to the next face.
Dismissed.
The lobby—sure enough—is unscathed. There's nothing to suggest there was an explosion or an implosion or whatever it is Super Fucking Villain did. Everyone is rushing about their business, as though they weren't freaking the fuck out not too long ago.
Kind of creepy, if you ask me.
Right. Time to bail.
Through the turnstile at the far end.
Predictably, the other side leads to the janitor's closest inside the bar, where the band is still playing my song. A paranoid guy would be wondering if the song is a metaphor for his life.
Good thing I'm not paranoid.
Ted raises his mop cloth. "Be seeing you."
I nod. "Count on it.
And he can. Because it's time I took more of an interest in what goes on in the SuperCouncil. I'm not enamored with the way they're doing business.
Yes, little Super Fucking Hero is growing up.
* * *
Mrs Margarita slaps a plate of steaming moussaka down on the table, directly in front of me. For those of you who don't know, it's heaven on a plate. Layers of meat and vegetables, smothered in white sauce and lightly browned cheese.
What's a famished man to do?
Start digging with his fork. There's a mountain of this stuff to be conquered.
"What did I tell you?"
Mrs Margarita folds her arms, glares at me across the table. But the glare is all in her mouth—her eyes are soft and watery. Aww, she's glad I'm alive.
Makes two of us.
When shit goes down, it's nice to know someone cares.
"I don't remember. You say a lot of things." I remember, but this is part of the game.
"I said, 'Super Fucking Hero, that woman is not what she seems.' And I was right! Women know. Women know."
A heaped fork takes its virgin voyage to my mouth, with a second one in pursuit.
Did I mention this woman can cook? I could die a happy guy right now, with a mouth crammed full of this meaty, cheesy, saucy mess.
"You were right, Mrs Margarita. I admit it."
"Good. Do not speak with your mouth full. Bad manners are for gypsies and Turks."
Yes, m'am. "She's still out there somewhere."
"Yes, but you will catch her. I know it."
"Third eye?"
"No. I know Hunter and I know Super Fucking Hero. Both of you will catch her."
And that's the end of that.
Well, almost.
Twenty-Five
There's a guy on the bridge and he's about to jump.
I know because that's me. Still freezing my nuts off—come on, spring! But damn, I look good in this superhero suit.
The location is a park on the expensive side—my side—of town. One path runs under the bridge, and bifurcates on the other side. In about two minutes you'll see a girl jogging
along that one path. On one of the path's other legs there's a mugger scheduled to intersect. He's some downtrodden low-life with a penchant for meth, and he's all out of cash and rocks.
Aaaaand, here they come …
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About the Author
Jack Bristol is not a superhero, but he’s been trying to be since his five-year-old self jumped off the roof with a sheet tied around his neck.
Thanks to that ultimately traumatic experience, the only thing he’s fit for now is writing. This is the end result.
Got something to say? Contact Jack at:
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