by Jack Bristol
I get it, the wanting to be something more. That's how I wound up in the suit. More or less.
It's not that I want to deny the guy his shot at being part of something bigger, but … Not everyone's cut out for the good fight or the strings that come with it.
Into the diner. It's a rectangle fitted with an overabundance of stainless steel and red Naugahyde.
(If you go to Naugahyde's website, there's a hilarious origin tale about little creatures called Naugas, and how they shed their skins without dying to provide us with these booths.)
Place is quiet. Only people in there are us and waitress and the grill cook. Oh, and the drunk guy draped over the jukebox.
Either he's dead or he's passed out.
I shut my eyes. Listen. Hear the telltale glub-glub of his circulatory system. Passed out. He'll be okay by morning. Maybe not tomorrow morning, but one of the other mornings after that. Guy reeks like a distillery.
Super smell. Blessing and a curse.
The blessing is behind glass. Cherry pie.
"Hey, Nora," I say, nodding to the waitress. She's something straight out of a 60s diner, beehive balanced on her head, eyeliner drawn into dramatic wings. She's sixty if she's a day, but she's still rocking serious cleavage.
"If you can find a booth, it's yours, honey," she drawls. All she's missing is a cigarette balancing on her vermillion bottom lip.
I glance around, scratching my head. "Gee, I dunno. Looks like we're unlucky tonight. Too bad, I really wanted some of that pie."
She and Roy, the grill cook, cackle. "Find a seat, honey. Coffee and pie for the both of you?"
"One pie and coffee, and …"
Mario's turn. "Pie with milk."
"Plain or chocolate, honey?" Nora asks.
"Chocolate."
Surprise, surprise, we find a booth. "What's with the jukebox guy?" I call out. Nora comes our way, hips swinging, rolling her eyes. "Been like that for a couple of hours now. That's an improvement over how he was earlier. Came in crying about some fishing trip. Here you boys go. Need anything, I'll be the sexy one behind the counter."
Roy grunts.
Not me, though. Fishing trip, huh?
Yeah, no. My super smell says last time that guy was near salt water was never.
Hmm … My super fucking senses are tingling—no Spidey involved.
"S'up?" Mario asks. "Why we here?"
I shake my head. "Nothing. Look, about the sidekick thing—"
"Aw, man. I'd be the best sidekick in superhero history! I can see us now, kicking ass, taking names. Unbeatable, man. Unbeatable." Poor bastard is all enthused, hands waving all over the place. Probably he's levitating in his seat out of excitement. Fuck. This is like kicking a puppy.
Not that I'd ever kick a puppy. And if I ever catch anyone kicking a puppy, they're going down.
Dogs aren't my superhero bailiwick (gotta see Mad Dog Woman for that; she's a trip), but sometimes we've been known to overlap. For, you know, the greater good.
But I'm about to kick a puppy, metaphorically speaking.
"No," I say. "No names. I never take their names. Baby. Call them Baby. Saves a lot of trouble.
"I meant the bad guys."
Oh. Them. "We—I—don't even take theirs. Secure the criminal, call the cops." Or dump them on the precinct house's doorstep.
"Okay, so I can totally see us kicking some serious ass." His enthusiasm is on a dimmer switch. "I need a new gig, brah. One of my buddies is in the state pen. It's hell in there. If I stay where I am, that's where I'm gonna end up, too. I'm not cut out for prison, man."
"Look, you seem like a decent guy, but I'm not even sure how the sidekick thing works. I work alone. That's how it is."
Mario buries himself in his chocolate milk and a plate of heaven.
I'm contemplating the guy slouched on the jukebox and his tear-inducing fishing trip that never happened, when Mrs Margarita texts.
Thirty minutes to get to the far side of the city. A part that—if this was a Podunk town—would sit on the wrong side of the tracks.
"Shit."
"What's up, boss?"
Great, he's already calling me boss.
I kind of like it.
So I tell him where Mrs Margarita's sending me and he grins. "That's my 'hood, brah. You go there, you're gonna need me."
Uh, hello. Superhero here. If anything I'm gonna wind up babysitting his ass, shielding him from bullets and meth heads.
"Nope."
"Come on, man. At least let me watch, see what I'm getting myself in to."
Fine.
Fiiiiiiiine.
"Okay," I say. "But not making any promises here."
He shovels the last chunk of pie into his mouth. Flecks spray the table 'cause he just can't help talking with his mouth full. "Yeah, I'm gonna be your sidekick. Soon you'll be wondering how you did it alone."
HahahaNO. "Ground rule: stay out of sight. You don't get superpowers unless you're official. I don't want to be saving you when I'm supposed to be saving the girl."
"Okay."
The Twilight Zone tinkles out of my phone again.
Messenger Boy is looking for you.
Yippee to the muthafuckin' kai-yay.
Sure enough, a moment later the door slaps open and in goose steps Messenger Boy. He's the SuperCouncil's flunky and courier. The pint-sized asshole never brings cheerful news. Whatever he's carrying in that messenger bag of his, guaranteed it's something I don't want to know.
As mentioned in my previous adventure, he signed on when he was a kid. Now he's an almost-forty-year-old guy in an outfit designed for an Austrian telegraph delivery boy, circa WWII. I affectionately—without any affection at all—refer to him as Rolfe, like the little Nazi prick in The Sound of Music.
"Shit," I mutter.
Never seen the guy out in public before. When he invades, it's usually my apartment. Mrs Margarita hides from him, but she's in on my secret identity. Nora and Roy though? Civilians, through and through. To them I'm Hunter or honey. I'm wondering how Rolfe's gonna handle this, when I realize they're not moving.
Whoa, time warp!
I always wondered about Messenger Boy's superpowers. I mean, being a pain in the ass isn't exactly impressive to anyone but a proctologist.
"Oh look, somebody shit on the sidewalk," I say.
"Who's that?" Mario is unaffected. Same deal as Mrs Margarita, I guess.
Messenger Boy grins. "Aww, Super Fucking Hero's got a boyfriend."
"That—" I slap Rolfe in the face with my best stink eye. Little fucker's immune. Look at that face. All that glee. Must have a doozy in his bag. "—is a Nazi garden gnome."
"The name is Messenger—" Uncomfortable, rigid gulp. "—Boy."
Ooooh, it burns him, a grown man being referred to as a child. Good.
Mario's freakout registers a three on a scale from one to ten. "What happened to those people? They dead? Did he kill them? He gonna kill us? 'Cause I'm not ready to die. I'm only twenty-seven, brah."
"Relax, they're just temporarily frozen in time. You're exempt because you know who I am. What do you want, Messenger Boy?" An extra dose of stress on the second part of his name.
"That," he says, nodding at Mario, "is a problem."
"What, I can't have buddies?"
"A sidekick. You can't have a sidekick."
"Says who?" The SuperCouncil, natch. But I like making our time together uncomfortable.
"You gonna call me a problem, say it to my face, asshole," Mario says.
Messenger Boy ignores him. Some people (all people, unless they're the SuperCouncil) are beneath his notice. "The SuperCouncil says so. He's not registered and they're not accepting any new superhero or sidekick registrations at this time."
Until someone retires, Falls, or dies. That's the text between the lines, in case you want to read it.
"Mario isn't my sidekick."
"I believe you. Really, I do," he says, airily. His eyes narrow. His voice harde
ns. Probably the only part of him that can. "Tell it to the SuperCouncil."
Fuck.
"And while you're there, you can update the SuperCouncil on your recent … starfish problem."
The jukebox springs to life. Lights flashing, Kenny Rogers howling about Ruby taking her love to town. Man's in bad shape if he's playing Kenny.
(Meanwhile, seen Kenny lately? Don't feel bad, no one has. Mostly because Kenny doesn't look like Kenny. Guy should have known when to fold 'em.)
"Starfish?" the guy mutters. Like a cow, he lifts his head and swings it left to right, then bellows, "Starfish?"
"Forget something, Messenger Boy?" I ask.
"Shit." Little punk wheels around.
"Don't freeze him!"
"Oh, why not?"
Can you believe this guy? I can because I know he's a douche with feet, but can you believe it? "Dude, Messenger Brat, aren't you listening? I'm looking for information about starfish, and here this guy is, drunk and crying into his jukebox about starfish. Not a coincidence."
Of all the coffee joints, in all the towns, in all the world …
In a flash (okay, no flash, but it's fast), I'm by the drunk's side, helping him to a booth. Poor intoxicated bastard is maybe fifty-something, the kind of guy whose pallid face says he's spends too much time in strip clubs.
I crouch in front of him, hope he doesn't barf. "What do you know about starfish? Besides the fact that they shit from their mouths."
"Oh my God," Messenger Boy swears. "Where do you come up with this bullshit?"
"True facts," Mario says, coming to the rescue. "Starfishes shit and eat with the same hole. Google it."
Ladies and gentlemen, my wannabe sidekick.
Okay, shh! The fubared guy is about to speak. Here it comes.
"Starfish … Fucking starfish. Paid the bitch for a lapdance and she sat there like a lump of coal on Christmas morning."
Huh. I figured that was a myth, the lump of coal thing.
"Holland," my wannabe sidekick says. "Poor kids used to get coal instead of toys and candy. Those clog-wearing assholes used to believe poor people were poor because they deserved it. Can you believe that shit, brah?"
"I believe everything after watching the run up to the last election," I mutter. To the drunk guy: "Talk to me about the starfish."
His head sways. "Wasn't just her. Half the girls in the joint were just sitting there. They were dancing, all right, but once there was a lap involved … nada."
"That's Spanish for nothing," Mario tells us.
"That one I've got," I say.
Messenger Dweeb groans. "The only thing more excruciating than watching you work is listening to you breathe. SuperCouncil tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock."
Fourteen
Over to the dark side, me and Mario—after I stop to change. The shitty side of the city, where everything's for sale, including your sister.
Your mother, if you don't have a sister.
For the record, there's no way to fly with another guy and make it look not gay. We're not doing it Ambiguously Gay Duo-style, but from some angles someone (everyone) might think we're cuddling.
See me with my chest puffed out, after we land? That's me reasserting my masculinity. I am a penis-owning American.
Here comes trouble. Young single mother just got off the bus, after a twelve-hour shift slinging burgers. Payday. Got cash in her pocket because her boss is paying her under the Formica table. Two guys push away from the brick apartment building a few feet away. They've been watching, waiting. Know it's payday because they used to flip the same patties.
Mama's a hottie. Got her long hair coiled up in a low bun. Wearing hiphuggers that live up to their name. The shirt's straining across her chest. It wants to cop a feel of her tits as much as I do.
"Stay right there in the shadows, okay?"
Mario bobs his head. "Okay, boss."
"Don't intervene—I've got it."
"Okay."
"And afterward …"
"Don't worry, brah. I got this. Learned to mind my own fucking business when I was a kid."
He's twanging my empathy chords.
"You're all right."
Time to move. Those thugs are closing the gap between them and the girl. She's speeding up because she knows something ain't right.
One guy whistles. She fucks up any chance of a getaway by glancing over her shoulder. Slows her down just enough to give them the advantage.
Lucky for her, that's when I swoop in, jam myself between her and them, shielding her with my arm.
"Hey, assholes. What's up?"
They exchange glances. Very Christmasy of them.
"You Super Fucking Hero?" Thug One asks.
"Down to the big red F."
Fear in their eyes. Doesn't extend to their mouths. Dregs like this, they've always got to get lippy. Guess they don't know there's only room for one smart-ass in this story. "You gonna kill us, bat fucker?"
Wait—what? Bat fucker? Tired of these clowns already.
SMASH!
That's the sound of two thugs slamming into a brick wall.
CRUNCH!
One broken nose.
KABOOM!
Picture a small dust cloud as I rough them up.
Now they're all tied up, nowhere to go but the back of the cop car, when it shows. If the cops even show around here.
"Fucking assholes," the girl says, flipping them off.
Down in the tights, my cock's getting all riled up because she said "fucking" and "assholes" in the same sentence. Man, I fucking love a girl who uses grownup words, calls a cunt a cunt. Nothing withers my hard-on faster than a girl who substitutes juvenile words for the real, raw deal. Fudge is something you eat or pack. Yell it when you hook your little toe on the coffee table's sharp corner and you're just lying to yourself. What you mean is "fuck." Say it. Own it.
"They won't be a problem again," I promise her.
That's when she flicks those dark eyes at me.
You know what comes next: both of us.
* * *
Remember at the beginning of Chapter One when I said every so often I meet a starfish? Sometimes a guy gets lucky and meets her opposite: a girl so willing and filthy that she's practically a myth outside of porn filmed in the Eastern Bloc.
This is the girl. And she's all-American. Maybe a light splash of Spanish.
She's squatting on my cock right now, buried up to the wrist in her own asshole. Periodically she tugs it out to give that hand a good lick. Lubing it up.
I'd invite her to use the lube in my tool belt, but this show's too good to miss.
Good thing she doesn't know about my amigo, who has wandered off down the street to give us some privacy. I have a feeling she'd want him to stuff her throat with meat, plugging her third hole.
Not big on spit roasts.
The pressure in my balls is going critical. Cock's starting to throb. It's dying to shoot a river inside her pussy. Shh, don't tell him he's inside a condom—he doesn't know any better.
The girl pulls out her hand, rides us both to the O … O … Oooooooo Fuck Yeah Corral.
When the screaming's over, she doesn't ask if I'll call, if she'll see me again.
Smart girl, she knows the score.
* * *
We're outside the precinct house. Mario blinks at the bad guys, hands on his hips. "Seriously, you just gonna leave them there?"
"Yeah, usually do."
"And the cops are cool with that?"
"When you order a pizza, you get delivery or pickup?"
"Delivery."
"Exactly," I tell Mario. "Come on. Time to see a guy about some strippers."
Fifteen
Three city blocks to the west the night's winding down, at least for people who don't rely on the snooze button to leverage them out the sheets in the AM. Traffic's sparse, bordering on non-existent. Streetlights do their best, but they can't shake out all the city's dark pockets. Still, the city is safer than
it used to be. I'm the reason. Crimes against girls—what people less porcine than me call 'young women'—are at an all-time low.
Feels good to know what I do counts.
Okay, enough blowing my own horn (no, not that horn—it's already blown); we all know how awesome I am.
Let's talk about Marvin.
Marvin is …
Okay, imagine a monkey in a yellow velour suit. Not a warmup suit, but an actual suit. Pants, tie, jacket. All of it yellow velour. Marvin is where good taste goes to die. He's of the caucasian persuasion, but guaranteed you've never met a guy who wanted to be black harder than Marvin. Right now he's slouched against the wall outside a coffee shop that shall not be named, but rhymes with scarfucks. The shop's closed but Marvin's open for business. Or at least his girls are.
Marvin's a peddler of human goods.
Okay, he's a pimp. And if anyone knows what's up in the strip clubs, it's Marvin.
"Marvin," I say. "How's business?"
He pushes away from the wall, wearing his big platinum grin. "Hey, it's my man, Super Fucking Hero. Good timing, man. Good timing. I wanna report a sex crime."
"What crime is that?"
"It's my girls. They ain't doing what girls do when the trick's paying. They're broken, my man."
Hands on my hips, legs apart. The classic superhero pose. "You're not beating them, are you, Marvin?"
"Shiiiit no, I ain't beating them. I cut their pay."
"Can't do that."
"What's a businessman to do? I got customers—paying customers—complaining that my girls acting like dick bores them. Can't even get them to suck. Poor man's special? Fuggedaboutit. They're giving the dead man's special. Unless my tricks turn necrophiliac, soon I ain't even gonna be able to give this pussy away."
Score. "Got one of them around?"
"My girls?" He shrugs. "Sure." Arm outstretched, he waves to a knot of ladies of negotiable affections and semi-present clothing down on the next corner.
Below the belt, in my Super Fucking Hero tights, my cock doesn't budge. The big guy's disinterested. Like me, he's not a fan of paying for something he can get for free.
