by Jack Bristol
Finally, I step up to the screening station.
"Super Fucking Hero?"
As usual, I don't make eye contact. Never know what's gonna provoke these two pit bulls. Plus identification involves a complex scanning of my retinas, voice, and who knows what else.
"Yes."
Beep. The forcefield flashes green and I'm free to step through.
Every time I've been here, the left door opens. But today it's the door straight ahead that swings open.
The hallway is the same. Long, boring, seemingly endless. Going nowhere, like a former child star's career. No dehydrated corpses. Surprising. Because a person could die trekking this hall.
Oh wait, there's a door up ahead. Thank fuck.
Now I'm wondering if there's a spectacular pair of tits on the other side, waiting to point me in the right direction. The greeter they've got stationed at the other door is Belinda. Her breasts are one of the modern wonders of the world. No surgery, no sag. Just natural perfection. I'm always torn between wanting to get my SuperCouncil business out of the way and standing there gaping at her rack like a horny pubescent schoolboy.
My cock's starting to stir. He's a huge fan of Belinda's tits.
Sure enough, when I fling the door open, there are boobs waiting. Not just any boobs, but Belinda's amazing feats of biology.
"They moved you," I say. Eloquent, right? Hey, it's a wonder I can do anything except grunt and drag her back to my cave for some one-on-two time with her tits.
"Excuse me?" Not a hint of recognition on her pretty face. She's smiling, but it's a bland curve that suggests it's part of the uniform.
"Usually I see you working at the other door."
A slight shake of her head. "How can I assist you today?"
Telling her to get on her knees and suck is out of the question, so I say, "I need to speak with some prisoners."
"Detainees are off-limits unless you have permission."
"Permission from who?"
That placid smile doesn't budge. "Any member of the SuperCouncil will suffice."
"Okay … Who's available right now?"
Belinda the Bountiful consults the clipboard in her hand. "Ms Westlake can see you."
Fuck. Fuuuuuuck.
I don't mind Clarissa Westlake. She's the best of an odd bunch. Trouble is, Ms Westlake is—I recently discovered—the former Super Fucking Villain.
See, supervillains can Fall. They see the light one day and switch from bad to good. It works the other way, too. Superheroes Fall—and when they do, it's catastrophic. They take everything with them when they go. Knowledge, skills, information about the SuperCouncil.
I'm not exactly convinced Clarissa's gonna be onboard with me pumping the current Super Fucking Villain's minions for information.
Belinda's waiting with that polite, institutional smile plastered to her face, several inches above her rack.
"Okay. Okay, she'll do."
"Ms Westlake is currently in her office. Please proceed—"
I kind of, sort of, blank out while she's reeling off the directions. She's waving her arm, drawing an air map, and all that movement is performing miracles on her chest.
"Uh huh. Thanks," I say in a dull, dazed voice when she's done.
My cock wilts like he can't believe I'm walking away from that view—not without taking pictures for later.
For the record, I never take pictures of the girls I rescue. You just never know when the cloud is gonna get hacked and all your private shit's gonna wind up making headlines on CNN. It's not just me I'm protecting, it's the girls. What we do is between us.
And, well, all of you.
If you recognize yourself in this story, relax. It's not you. And even if it is, I don't remember your face or name. Okay, baby?
I do my I-own-the-fucking-world walk in the direction she indicated. And right there, in front of my nose, the moment I open the outer door, is Clarissa Westlake's office. With all Belinda's gesturing—and tit shaking—I figured the office would be in some obscure corner, way the hell down there. But no.
This place is whack.
Did I use that word right?
Rooms move and evolve. Parts of Superhero Headquarters exist in different dimensions, other countries, and—I suspect—other planets. Remember the lobby? Super Fucking Villain's minions blew it up. Or imploded it. Or something like that. In that same moment, the SuperCouncil slid a replacement lobby—completely identical—into its slot.
Magic. Sorcery. Complete what-the-fuckery.
I knock once and wait.
"Come on in," Clarissa calls out.
I'm not a guy who likes to keep a woman waiting, unless it's for her pleasure, so in I go.
No one in their right mind would call this an office.
Let's call it what it is: a dungeon. Not one of those grim places from Game of Thrones or Blackadder II. This is a good-time dungeon, if you consider pain and humiliation a good time. Which I do, if the girl I'm banging wants to play that way. Nothing wrong with spanking a girl who's dripping all over your lap.
My artistic abilities are zero, but I'll do my best to describe this BDSM (Bondage/Discipline/Domination/Sadism/Masochism—if you're the one person over eighteen in the western world who doesn't know) playground.
Racks. (Picture me casting my arm wide.) Racks, as far as the eye can see. Soft lighting. Black walls. Three red Cs: couch, curtain, cushions. Whips, chains, nipple clamps. A metal tray reminiscent of something you'd see in an operating room, only this one is loaded down with toys. Butt plugs, dildos, vibrators.
Clarissa Westlake is curled up on the couch, reading. An attractive older woman, she's in her usual sensible shoes and buttoned-up cardigan. Very prim and proper. Completely fucking out of place in this sexual torture chamber.
"I quit villainy, Mr Forrester," she says, reading my face, "not sex."
"Hey, I didn't say anything."
"You didn't need to. You're the proverbial open book. How can I help you today?"
My asshole clenches. Is it my imagination, or did she just glance at the whips? I'm more of a giver than a receiver.
"I need permission to speak with the current Super Fucking Villain's minions. If they're still here."
"Oh, they're still here. Locked away, safe and sound in our SuperPrison. Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you wish to speak with them?"
"Starfish attack."
She tilts her head. "Starfish? I'm going to assume you're talking about the female kind, not the star-shaped aquatic creatures."
Clever woman. Of course she'd know what a starfish is.
I nod.
"And you think Amy Hart is behind this?"
"Maybe."
She shakes her head. "Impossible. Every person to don the Super Fucking Villain mantle is a voracious lover. It's what we do—or did, in my case. I can't imagine any scenario in which she would condone such … placid, pathetic behavior."
"Still, I've got to start somewhere. Her football clowns are the only lead I've got so far."
Clarissa Westlake zones out for a moment, then her prim mouth says, "Permission granted. Not because I believe Amy's involved, but because I don't like starfish, Mr Forrester. They're disingenuous. Lovers should always be willing and enthusiastic."
"Even when they're being manipulated?"
I can't help the dig. It's the smart-ass in me.
She shakes her head. "Oh, Mr Forrester. Super Fucking Villain isn't alone in her ability to manipulate the opposite sex. Maybe you don't emit pheromones the way she does, but haven't you ever wondered why you're every woman's type, why no one ever says no?"
"Uh, I'm heroic and good-looking."
"So are most of the other superheroes."
"What are you saying?"
She and her cardigan stand. Those sensible shoes carry her across the room to where I'm standing, wondering what the hell is going on.
Then she thunks me on the forehead. "Didn't you read the Super Fu
cking Hero file before you put the suit on?"
"Yes." No.
Okay, I skimmed the highlights: Save the girl, fuck the girl, save the next girl.
"Maybe you should read it again. Pay attention to the parts you skipped."
"Yes, M'am."
She throws back her head, laughs. For a moment I can see it, the formidable foe she would have been for a past Super Fucking Hero.
"What was he like?"
"Who?"
"My predecessor."
"Like you, he was a good man."
"What happened to him?"
A cloud passes over her eyes. "I did," she says.
How's that for heavy?
Not to mention (yeah, I know I'm mentioning it) ambiguous.
* * *
Back to the tits—uh, Belinda. No documentation needed to prove Clarissa Westlake approved my request; Belinda already knows. She swivels, pointing to a steel door behind her. I swear, it wasn't there before.
Her rack's a distraction, but not that big a distraction.
Okay, yes it is.
The door, Super Fucking Hero. The door.
No time to contemplate the door, because it swings open on my approach. I swear to God, that thing is two-feet thick. It's a freakin' vault door.
My dealings with the law and prisons are limited to my regular pithy exchanges with my former best friend, Jerry Kern, a police captain in this city. We'd still be friends, but I'm busy with the superhero gig and he's a hostage. The guy's got a chronic case of Stockholm syndrome. Don't believe me? He married his hostage taker. Now he spends his evenings watching Reality TV, seemingly content with the knowledge that he'll never scratch his balls again. You know those squishy little stress ball things that were popular in the 90s? Yeah, his wife repurposed his nuts as her temporary stress relievers.
Where was I? Oh yeah, my limited exposure to law enforcement and the legal system.
I'm not a fan.
Yeah, I'm biased. The local cops do a decent enough job, but have they found my mother's killer yet?
That's a big, fat no. The case is open, but no one ever looks at the file.
Except me. Jerry did me a solid and gave me a copy. It's worthless. Ever see Ms Swan on Mad TV? "He Look-a like-a man." That's who they all saw. A man who look-a like-a man in contemporary thug wear.
You know how many young guys that described at the time?
Most of them.
The cops narrowed it down to most of the city's male population, between the ages of sixteen and thirty.
Holy digression, guy in the bat suit! Let's get back to the vault door. You want to know what's inside, right?
Ditto.
It's a metal box. No buttons. Nothing but shiny metal walls. Slick.
"It's a silver alloy," Belinda calls out.
Silver? Why?
Before I've got a chance to ask, the vault door slams shut, sealing me inside like I'm gold bullion. Then it swings open, and I'm not in Kansas anymore.
Not that I was to begin with.
Nine
Nice desert. We don't have one like it in the United States.
Pretty sure we don't have one like it anywhere on Earth. But all the same, I'll Google desert blue sand and see what pops up. If there's one thing watching Planet Earth taught me (using Richard Attenborough's voice) it's that the world is wondrous and surprising.
Still¸ pretty sure there's no blue desert.
"Like it?"
Away from the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows, back to the guy in the Security uniform watching me. I'm in another long corridor, white except for the desert out there.
"Eh, it's okay, I guess."
His mouth twitches. The guy's got a sense of humor. Doesn't jibe with the shaved head and the giant ray gun he's toting.
"Where are we?"
"I don't know."
"But you work here."
He turns away. The tilt of his head says I'm supposed to follow. Do I look like a dog? No. I'm beefcake. A hunk. So I fall into step beside him like an equal. Looks like we're headed to that steel door all the way down there.
"Yeah, but doesn't mean they tell me where here is. Extra layer of security."
"Must be some serious badasses they keep here."
"You've got no idea." He nods at the windows passing by. "Nice windows, right?"
"Right."
"Not windows. Video screens."
"Wow. Lifelike." Except for the blue desert part. Which is basically all of it.
"You're here for Super Fucking Villain's crew?"
"Yeah."
He nods. Reminds me of a parrot with the bobbing head and the hooked nose. I hope I don't fuck up and offer him a cracker.
"They cry a lot," he tells me.
"They're barely out of high school."
He laughs at that. "Doesn't look like you're much older."
Hunter Forrester is twenty-six. Super Fucking Hero, though, that guy's been around for years. "They doing okay, aside from the crying?"
Here comes the door. On autopilot, I reach for the handle, but it doesn't budge.
"It sticks," Security Guy says. He barely touches the thing and it swings open.
Sticky, my ass.
No more windows or fake windows on this side of the door. We're in a small, white room. We're in a cake box, that's where we are.
"Prepare for screening," a disembodied voice says. Can't tell where it's coming from. No speakers—or speaker.
Beep, beep.
Sounds like the roadrunner, but it's not. It's a neon grid; looks like chicken wire but it's made of blue light. And it's slowly descending from the ceiling, target: us.
"Happens every time. Can't take any chances."
One inch at a time, it sinks. I feel a faint tingling that vanishes when the grid disappears into the floor.
"We good?" I already know the answer, but I have to ask.
"Wouldn't be here if we weren't."
Figures.
Directly ahead of us, the wall dissolves. Cool trick. It opens into a long corridor, cells lining both sides. Inside each SuperCell, the light is unnervingly bright. It paints the walkway a cool white.
For whatever reason, the SuperCouncil is crazy about white. I guess, like black, it goes with pretty much everything, including criminals.
Huh. Not that big a place, I'm thinking. At least until we step out of the room, into the corridor, and I see I'm totally fucking wrong. Remember that warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark? Big place, right?
Nope.
That place was an anthill compared to the SuperPrison. This thing stretches out to infinity and beyond (sorry, Buzz. Had to quote you there, little plastic man). Up, down, out in every direction. Women, men, and other assorted creatures pacing, sitting, stretched out on their narrow beds. I glance away from a man who's convening with nature, on his shiny metal throne. This corridor leads to a glass and steel (I assume) booth. More walkways spider out from that one hub.
"Wow, that's a bunch of bad guys."
Security Guy shrugs. "Some of them have been here since the SuperPrison opened."
"When was that?"
"Don't know. Hang on, I'll get your boys."
"Get them?"
"Come on."
I'm back to following him, all the way to that guard booth. It's bigger up close. Taller, too. Looks like it runs vertically through the SuperPrison like a thick vein. Two more Security Guys inside, both of them dangerously slight and short. It's the little ones you've got to watch. You can topple a big guy, but the shorter ones don't have as far to fall, which gives them an advantage.
When was the last time you saw a huge ninja?
Never, that's when.
The guys in the booth look me over. No judgement, no curiosity, just something to do. I guess I'm a change in scenery.
"Which one are you?"
"Super Fucking Hero."
"Huh," he says. "Haven't been here before, have you?"
"Nope."
"What do you do?"
I point to the big, red F on my chest. "Fuck."
He goes back to his flashing panel.
Did I mention the flashing panel? There's a flashing panel. Lots of lights and buttons and screens. Very impressive. I'm totally impressed.
Are you impressed? You should be.
"Prisoners are ready," he says.
Everybody's looking at me like I know what to do next. Go easy on me, fellas. It's my first time. And unlike sex and riding a bicycle, I've never watched anyone do this. Nothing happens for a few moments. We're busy exchanging glances. Mine says, WTF? and their says, Can you believe this clown? More like Super Fucking Clueless Hero.
Security Guy Numero Uno shows me some mercy. Good man. I'll put him on the Christmas card list I never make. I'd say it's the thought that counts, but I never think about it.
"Stand over there."
He's pointing to the yellow hula hoop on the floor, in the booth's center. Not plastic. More like neon light. The SuperPrison digs neon. Very Las Vegas, but without Wayne Newton's plastic face and girlish voice.
Standing in the hula hoop, I hope I've got what it takes if I need to wiggle these hips.
Turns out there's no wiggling necessary. I vanish in a flash of light.
Ten
A split second later, I materialize in yet another white room.
Surprised? Me either.
This one's divided in two. My half has a chair. Metal. Uninviting. Guess nobody wants company around here. No chairs in the other half. Just a gaggle of college boys. Super Fucking Villain's minions. They're looking at me with a mixture of fear and rage.
No chair for me; I lean against the wall, arms folded. "They treating you okay in here?"
"Fuck you."
That friendly fellow is the mouth of the bunch, looks like. The designated speaker. He's a blond head stuck on a thick, stocky body. Looks like he can easily survive an eleven-man pileup.
"Hey now, I didn't put you guys in here." I was more or less against it, which you already know if you read the previous book. "Want to blame someone? Blame Super Fucking Villain."
Blondie finger-jabs the air. Makes me feel so vulnerable.
