by Jack Bristol
Not a woman to me—not even close. She's a girl.
Oink.
Hang on a minute while I humor her. "You're a pretty woman—"
"Pretty. Not beautiful."
I'm stuck in a no-win situation. Here it comes, folks—the arm fold.
Aaaand, there it goes. She shuffles over to the far side of the bed, her and her origami-folded arms.
Now I'm fucked, and not in the good way. It's all over but the leaving.
"I'm just gonna—" I hook a thumb at the bedroom door.
"Go? Of course you are. Guys always do."
My cock grabs his balls and gets ready to bail. It's an Arctic winter in here, getting colder by the second.
"I'll, uh—"
"Call me? No you won't."
Wasn't gonna say that. I won't call. Never do. They give me numbers on slips of paper, draw them on my skin; once, this one crazy girl scratched her digits into my back. Took a week to heal. But that didn't entice me to punch those scabs into my phone.
"Baby, I never made you any promises."
"The name," she spits, "is Olivia."
By the time she gets the last syllable out I've already forgotten her name. Remember that, because I'm going to regret it later.
On the way out, I peek in her hallway where she's hanging all the usual suspects on one of those entryway hook things. Sure enough, North Face jacket.
Black.
I knew it.
Five
That cold bitch, the moon, is on her back. And me, I'm borderline cuddling this gangbanger fucker. It's just us girls—uh, guys.
He's still crying, by the way. But it's slowly drying up.
"I ain't ever met no starfish before," he's saying. "Usually the bitches are into it. Know what I'm saying?"
I know, brother man. I know. "Let's get moving. You okay?"
"Okay. You wanna go for a drink or something?"
"Nah. I gotta fly—literally. And you—" I point at him. "—are coming with me."
"Yo, where we going?"
"Home. I don't know where you live, so you can stay with a buddy of mine until you sober up. Can't have you out on the streets like this."
There is no buddy—my buddy is me.
Yeah, I'm taking him home. Maybe a guy lets another guy drive drunk, but I'm a superhero. Public endangerment isn't what I do.
* * *
Back in the Super Fucking Hero cave-slash-lair-slash-penthouse apartment …
Mrs Margarita looks at the gangbanger slumped on my kitchen table and sniffs. She saves the stink eye for me.
It's cool, I'm used to it.
"What is that? A stray?"
"This is …" No idea. Don't look at me—you guys know how good I am with names. And baby's not gonna work this time.
Baby-not-baby lifts his head off my kitchen table. "Mario." That same head flops back down.
With a magician's hand-swish I say, "There you, go. That's Mario."
"Hmm …"
"What?"
"Do you think it is a good idea to bring strange men home?"
"Better than meeting them in public bathrooms George Michael-style, right?"
Her eye twitches. "George Michael was a good Greek boy until he joined Wham! Fame turned him gay, because after you have had all the women, what else is there? Penis. And after penis—horses."
Pretty sure that's not how things work. Guaranteed, I've had more pussy than George Michael, but I don't see me turning to the rainbow side, shunning hole for pole.
I park my ass against the counter. "Relax, Mrs Margarita. I'm not turning gay—not that there's anything wrong with that. I couldn't send the guy out onto the streets drunk. That's all."
"You are a good boy, Super Fucking Hero. Stupid, eh, sometimes. But good." She grabs my head, dumps a kiss on my forehead. "If he becomes a problem, let me know. My dead husband still has people who owe him a favor. They could make him disappear and no one would ever know. Maybe put him in a speed bump. He is a good size for that."
Mrs Margarita's deceased husband was carpet in our city. Made a lot of money laying Berber, back in the days before wood floors became trendy again.
"Thanks, Mrs M."
"There is pastitsio in the refrigerator if you need to feed your guest."
Pastitsio. It's Greek lasagna, with fewer layers.
She helps herself out of my place, same way she helps herself in: through the front door. Got her own key.
I cut two pieces of the Greek lasagna, zap it in the microwave until its spitting cheese and oil.
Mario lifts his head, says, "Nice place."
"Thanks."
"My cousin Tito has a mansion in Miami."
"What's he do?"
He shrugs. "Drugs. Weapons. Prostitutes."
"Good money in those things." Ask the mob—they know.
"What's this pay—being a superhero?"
"Nothing."
Yeah, doesn't look like he's buying this. But it's true. Why do you think so many superheroes are choking on money? Got to afford the cool toys somehow. "How'd you end up with this sweet crib?"
"Family."
"You live with your parents?"
"They moved out."
"Cool," he says, bobbing his head.
Not the word I'd use. We're male and he's a stranger, so I don't link arms with the guy for a stroll down memory lane. My mother's dead, my father's crazy, and I'm the twenty-six-year-old guy living in their old penthouse apartment while their money breeds more money in the bank.
"Eat," I say. "Then get sleep it off. Got lots of spare rooms—pick one."
"You mean what you said—about the starfish?"
"Yeah, man. Every sexually active guy meets one sooner or later. They're a fact of life."
Six
Same shit, different work day.
"Got laid last night."
When it sinks in that Ethan didn't tack a question mark to the end of his sentence, I double-take and almost sideswipe a recycling can.
Different work day, yeah, but not the same shit.
Ethan's my partner in furniture delivery for Mighty Fine Furniture. I drive, he drives from the passenger seat. He's a neckless behemoth with Kermit the Frog legs. His face is permanently stuck in the "duh" position. Even a smile doesn't flick all his lights on.
But he's good people.
I think.
Look, it's not like we ever really know someone. We formulate our opinions of people after swilling a concoction of their words, actions, and whether or not they share our love for hometown sports teams.
Sports are usually the tie breaker. Or the deal breaker.
Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that Ethan almost never gets laid. So the fact that he scored some ass is cause for celebration.
Hand up: "High five, asshole."
"Starfish. She was a starfish."
Hand down. "Fuck. Sorry. Happens to the best of us, man." Saying those words a lot, lately.
"Oh yeah? When did it happen to you?"
Last night, but I don't say that. This is Ethan's moment. He doesn't get many. "Recently. Happens to every guy, sooner or later."
"You think?"
"I know."
He grunts.
"Hey," I say, inching up to the curb in front of a cookie-cutter starter home in the suburbs. "Starfish or not, you got your dick wet, right?"
"Yeah." He leaves the 'but' silently dangling. I get it. He wanted her to be into him. We all want that, man. Even for fifteen or fewer minutes.
"High five?"
"Raincheck," he says. "Let's get this shit delivered."
Mighty Fine Furniture is light on mighty, light on fine. But it's, you know, furniture. What I'm saying is it's not where you go if you're investing in your future.
"Let's do it," I say.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, we're back in the truck, easing on down the road to the next delivery.
"Bitch."
No point glancing at Ethan, I know w
hat he means. That's guy-talk for, She hurt my man-feelings, lying there like a cold, dead fish. Now my masculinity is suspect and my ego got punched in the sack. So fuck her—and not in a good way—it can't be me. It's her.
"Ethan, my man," I say, checking the GPS. "Next time spring for the deluxe blowup doll."
"Fuck you." Then he nods at the side mirror. "You got a stalker?"
Stalkers. They happen.
Not usually to me, though.
I'm an unflinchingly honest guy when it comes to the girls I fuck. Rescue, fuck, goodbye. No promises that we'll do it again sometime or that I'll call, even when they leave their number.
We won't. I won't.
As an extra layer of security, I'm cagey about my identity. There's not a girl I've banged in this city that knows I'm Hunter Forrester, unless she's someone I've dated.
And there hasn't been anyone in ages.
No time. By day I deliver furniture, by night I save damsels in distress (and then fuck them). Sleep? When I can.
My eyes cut to the mirror bolted onto driver's side of the delivery truck. There's a car moseying along behind us.
I know the car. Last time I saw it, I was on a bridge.
Mario.
I pull over. Get out. Stroll back to see what's up.
Mario and his MOTHE roll down the window. "Hey," he says.
"What's up, man?"
"Nothing. You?"
"Nothing. You following me?"
"Nah. Just driving behind you."
"On purpose?"
"Nah," he says, shaking his head at the road. "Okay, yeah."
"That's called following."
"Oh." He fades out for a moment, gathering his thoughts into a bouquet. "I was thinking maybe you could teach me to do what you do."
"Deliver furniture?"
"Nah, man. The superhero thing. It looks cool, you know?"
Oh, Jesus. Here's a new problem. Had to happen sooner or later, right? "What do you do now?"
"I work in my brother's automotive repair shop. He's not my real brother. We've been tight since we was kids, though."
"Better money in fixing cars," I tell him.
"Yeah, but it's not cool."
"Most of the time being a superhero isn't cool, either."
Doesn't look like he believes me. Fuck, I don't believe me either. Most of the time it's awesome with a side of amazeballs. The flying, the superpowers, the girls …
"Come on, " he says, looking every kind of pitiful.
"No. No. I'm a lone wolf. A one-man team. I vant to be alone."
Blank look on his face says he doesn't get the reference. Guess his mother wasn't a Garbo fan like mine was.
I straighten up, rap the roof of his car. "Gotta work, man. This furniture won't deliver itself. We know, we've tried."
"Okay," he says. "Thanks, brah. It was worth a shot."
He chucks a U-turn and speeds away, muffler puffing an unhealthy amount of smoke into the air. Poor bastard, obviously not that good a mechanic. Hope he's got a backup plan that doesn't involve being a superhero.
Back in the truck, Ethan's glued to the mirror. "What was that about?"
"Guy was lost," I lie. "He just needed a point in the right direction."
Seven
I'm not the kind of guy who starts a book with dreaming and waking up. But a new scene? It's fair game. You're already along for the ride.
It'll be short, I promise.
So I'm napping on the couch, limbs sprawled, mouth drooling, when Ethan shows up in my dream, blowup doll tucked under his arm. We're on some beach, sun searing my retina, gritty sand burrowing between my toes, when he says, "Starfish shit from their mouths. Did you know that, Hunt?"
Bam. Instant wake-up.
(See, dream over. I promised it would be short.)
I peel myself off the couch, grab my laptop. Because now I've got to know if it's true, if starfish shit out of their mouths, or whether my dream self is whacko.
The Internet says yes, starfishes use the same hole to shit and eat. Guess E. coli's not a problem for marine life.
Don't know what I'm so worried about. You know how many girls I've known who happily go ass to mouth? A lot of them, if you go about it the right way.
Digressing. Sorry.
Back to the starfish thing. So I'm Googling starfish, and then my gaze hooks on one of the search results.
Reddit. A couple of days ago, some guy started a thread on my city's subreddit about non-aquatic starfish. He's one of those guys—like me, except not a superhero, as far as I know—who has it easy when it comes to girls. He loves them, they love him, and as soon as they love each other he's on to the next sweet thing. Says lately he and his buddies have noticed an uptick in the number of starfish—the female kind. A bunch of other local guys have already chimed in, throwing in the details about identical recent encounters.
They can't all be banging the same girls.
Right?
A quick search tells me the problem is isolated to this city, aside from the usual smattering of corpse-like lovers in other areas.
(Really, that's what it's like. Banging a warm corpse. Not that I've ever done that, but I've heard stories at the annual Superhero Convention. Once superheroes get started on supervillains and other lesser bad guys, the talk gets weird—fast.)
First thing that springs to mind?
Super Fucking Villain.
Professor Amy Hart flew the proverbial coop after our encounter at the SuperCouncil. She lost; I kind of lost, too, because she vanished. But I call myself the winner because, hey, guy here. They've replaced her at the college, sliding a long-haired beanpole behind her desk. Ask me, the guy looks like Jesus. America's fair-haired, blue-eyed idea of Jesus. (The people who swallow that are the same ones who believe man used to walk hand in hand with the Tyrannosaurus Rex, through bountiful orchards, filled with definitely-not-forbidden fruit.)
Anyway, Super Fucking Villain's off somewhere, licking her wounds while someone—or several someones—lick her gash. Guaranteed. And I'm willing to bet several fistfuls of Monopoly money that she's behind the recent spate of starfish in my city.
Too bad I don't know where she is.
But I know several somebodies who might.
Eight
Like a dandelion puff, I float to the ground.
Not really. Just feeling poetic. I can land with Tinker Bell precision and smoothness with the best of them, but I save those stunts for when I'm carrying human cargo.
When I land in the park outside my not-even-close-to-favorite bar, it's with a small thud and a slight jerk, because some asshole left an empty beer bottle in the grass.
Who does that?
I glance around the city park, answering my own question. These guys (and gals), that's who. Like most urban green areas, it's sporting its own homeless population. Looks like they're starting to multiply lately, too.
Because I'm a decent guy—and because I don't want to incur the wrath of The Recycler—I pick up the bottle, carry it across the street with me to the bar.
The same old song greets me at the door. Hotel California. Only the band in the corner isn't the Eagles. They're more like a garage band, playing with misfit instruments and no discernible talent.
Good thing I'm just passing through.
Ted nods at me from behind the bar, where he's wiping a highball. "This isn't BYO."
I sit the bottle on the bar, give it a push in his direction. "Not for me, friend. It's a gift."
"You shouldn't have."
"What can I say, I'm a generous guy." Then, with a wink, I head toward the restrooms. Although frankly, they're not the kind of place anyone with good hygiene wants to rest.
If your other half comes home with a social disease, don't leap to conclusions. Ask if they've been to this city, to this bar. Gonorrhea wuz here. Crabs, too.
Between restrooms, there's a janitor's closet, which is where I'm going. I yank open the door, step inside, close the door behind me, an
d—
Whoosh!
That, folks, is the sound of the floor falling away, with me clinging to its surface. I've evolved past the shrieking stage.
Barely.
That janitor's closet above me is this city's only way into the SuperCouncil building, AKA Superhero Headquarters. There's an entrance in every city, town, hamlet in the world, all of them cleverly disguised as some Godforsaken shithole. Every entrance leads directly to the lobby, a massive … I want to say room, but isn't there a size limit on rooms? It's like something you'd find in a major airport, but with a higher ceiling. White walls. White ceiling. Swirly, shiny floor made of something hard. Traffic flows constantly through portals that open in the ceiling, floor, and walls. When it ebbs, it ebbs through a toothy turnstile at the rear. One exit that leads to everywhere. Magic.
I don't ask how they do it; I'm content to enjoy the trick.
When I land, it's without polite ceremony. The floor slams into the, uh, floor, and I roll off while trying to hold back the projectile vomit punching its way up my esophagus. Then the janitor's closet floor snaps back into place.
As usual, this place is packed. Superheroes from around the world, from different dimensions, from—cue the Twilight Zone theme song—from other worlds, and—if they're one of the fortunate few who've scored their own movie, TV show, or comic book—sometimes they're accompanied by their entourages.
Pretentious twats.
At the front of the lobby you'll find the security gate. That's where I'm going now, chest out, shoulders square. Super Fucking Hero is Super Fucking Awesome. My business is on the far side of the ceiling to floor, wall to wall forcefield. It stays red until visitors are approved. Two unassuming, almost invisible in their blandness, security guards stand either side of the screening station, but don't be fooled. These guys will rip off your head and shit down your neck if you're an intruder.
Kidding; you'll be evaporated.
Jesus, it's a long walk. I'm a fit guy but would it hurt them to install some of those flat escalators?
Know what this place needs? One of those suggestion boxes. Got a lot of suggestions.
