by Jack Bristol
Yeah, yeah, I know some of you think girlfriends and wives cost more than a working girl, but doesn't matter to me. When I'm fucking it's because me and my dick want her. And when a girl's fucking me, she and her ass, mouth, or pussy want me right back.
It's still a transaction, Super Fucking Hero, I hear you saying. Those girls, they're paying you for the rescue.
Maybe they are. But I'd save them even without the Fucking in my name. I'm no better than the next guy (who in this case happens to be Marvin, so maybe I'm wrong), but losing my mother in a violent crime altered my personality's DNA.
If that's even a thing.
The ladies of the night start their catcalls and wolf whistles as soon as we start walking their way.
"I love your job," Mario says, big grin plastered to his face.
"Down, boy. We're not here to buy."
"Maybe they give free samples."
"No. No free samples. The Marvins of the world don't give free samples."
"But—"
"No. Now be cool. And quiet. Quiet is good."
"Super Fucking Hero! It's our lucky night, right girls?"
That's Nancy Sparkles. She's a ho. Lots of sequins, thigh-high boots, red fishnets. Half a tube of red on her mouth. She trails a long press-on nail down my F. "I hear you're packing big things under those tights, Mr Superhero."
"Normally I'd tell you not to listen to rumors, but that one's true." A good eight inches of truth.
"You gonna show us?"
"Not tonight, ladies."
The tits are fake but the pout's real. "That's too bad. What do you want with a bunch of sexual entrepreneurs?"
That's a new one. "Been hearing stories about how you lovely ladies aren't working so hard these days."
She one-shoulder shrugs. "I guess we tired of making more money for Marvin than ourselves." The others murmur in agreement. "So we taking it easy, if you know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know. That's why I'm here. Where'd you get the idea?"
Another shrug. She's full of them. "Around."
"Come on, don't be so shy."
She scoffs at that, flicks her stick-straight hair over one shoulder. "Hell, I ain't shy. I just don't want to say."
"You'd be helping me out. I'd be …" I look her up and down. "…grateful."
"Exactly how grateful would you be?"
I show her what's in my pants.
Jesus—cash, people. As many cocks as these fine ladies see, a glimpse of yet another dick isn't gonna thrill them—even mine, despite her earlier disappointment.
"That all you got?"
"Depends. What's this much gonna get me?" I shake my money-holder.
"Okay. But I'm only telling you because word is you good to women. Treat 'em right. Fuck and leave, but at least you honest." She snatches the Benjamin out of my hand, tucks it between the best pair of tits a limited budget can buy. "There's a girl on the radio, calls herself Starfish. She like one of them motivational speakers. And she sure can motivate. She talk about how we give men too much for too little, how it's time to take back our power and give it to someone more deserving: ourselves."
"And you do that through … not moving around during sex?"
Anyone else surprised when she shrugs? Because I'm not. "It's a start. Phase One, she calls it."
"What's Phase Two?"
"I don't know, but she say it gonna be big."
"Any idea when it starts?"
"Soon. That's all she said."
"Sounds like an interesting girl."
Hand on her heart. "She my personal hero now that Oprah's not on the TV."
"What station is she on?"
"107.9 FM."
We go back to Mario, who's entertaining the rest of the group. He's showing them his tattoos. Guy's got a lot.
"We good?" he asks.
I nod. "Time to fly."
He rubs his hands together. "I love that part."
"Hey," I say to the girls. "Do me a favor? What do I look like to you?"
Sixteen
In order:
"Big, bald black man. Fine, like a younger Denzel."
"You remind me of that vampire guy from True Blood. The blond one."
"You're The Rock—but with a neck."
"My husband's kid. He's sixteen, but the boy is already trouble."
"Newt Gingrich."
Say what?
"Just kidding," the pay-for-lay girl says. "That guy couldn't get fucked in a whorehouse. You look like Brandon Lee—before he was dead."
Notice anything?
None of them described me.
* * *
Doesn't take long to check out there's no 107.9 FM in the city. Nothing but crackling air, like a mass popping of bubble wrap.
Dead end.
And who listens to radio these days anyway? It's all satellite radio or your phone jacked in so you can spin tunes on Spotify and Pandora.
"What are you thinking, boss?" Mario asks.
"Not your boss, buddy. Go home. We'll talk tomorrow."
"You mean tomorrow tomorrow, or today tomorrow?"
Got to think about it for a moment. "Today tomorrow. After work."
"Cool."
When it comes to the matter of sidekicks, there's only one person to call. Not gonna say his name. Don't want to be accused of namedropping.
Plus he gets the lion's share of superhero publicity, that brooding bastard. Why give him more?
"Talk to me about sidekicks," I say when he picks up. I push open the balcony doors, step out into the night. My balcony's long, wide. In the old days my parents used to entertain out here. Their guests loved the view. Got to say, it's pretty impressive. Even now, as a guy who can fly without the help of an airplane or illicit drugs, I have to admit the view is amazing. "You've had a few, so I figured you'd be the guy to call."
He laughs, on the low end of baritone. "You could say that. What makes you want a sidekick?"
"Not sure I do. But I've got more work than I can handle, and a decent, enthusiastic candidate."
"They're always enthusiastic at first. Want my advice? Don't do it. You take on a sidekick and you become responsible for them, even when they perform major feats of ridiculousness."
"What's the upside?"
"Of having a sidekick? It's less lonely. Someone's got your back. It helps with movie sequels."
"Really? Because I saw that one and it wasn't—"
"Moving on," he says in a rush. "It can help with taxes, too."
"Thanks, man. It's all food for thought. How's things going?"
He blows out a sigh. "You know. I do a lot for this city. Keep them safe. But are they grateful? No. Something about this city is a magnet for evil."
"Do you think it's you?"
The billionaire thinks about it for a minute. "No, that can't be it. Got to go. Time to give away some more money while pretending to be an idiot."
* * *
Mrs Margarita finds me on the balcony, staring the night in the face.
"Did Messenger Boy find you?"
"He found me."
"Did you punch him in the balls?"
"Not this time."
Mrs Margarita sniffs. "That is too bad. I do not like that man. He reminds me of a weasel, sneaking into the henhouse so he can rip apart the chickens."
Nice visual. Bet that won't give me nightmares at all.
"Aaaaand, on that note, I'm gonna get some shuteye before work."
"Okay," she says, "I am going to listen to my favorite radio show while I bake."
"In the middle of the night?"
"I am old, Super Fucking Hero. Why waste the time I have left with sleep?"
How's the math coming along? You've got to be adding this up quicker than me. Hurry up and turn the page; the next part is where the earth starts bucking under my feet.
Seventeen
"What's wrong, fuck head?"
Ethan says the sweetest things to me. "Nothing. Place looks familiar, that's all."
> "Probably you fucked …" He snatches the clipboard off the armrest. "Olivia Hamilton."
"Sounds vaguely familiar."
"Really?"
"No, just fucking with you. I never remember names."
Ethan doesn't know about Super Fucking Hero. It's not that I don't trust the guy, but it would make things weird. He doesn't know about the penthouse, either, or the size of my bank account and portfolio. You think being a superhero makes things weird? Try being rich—no, wealthy. Okay, let's call it what it is. Stinkin' fuckin' loaded. Thing is, aside from the apartment, the money's all sitting right where my parents left it, gathering green that isn't moss. What I live on is what Mighty Fine Furniture pays me to dump their goods in people's houses.
So ol' Ethan thinks I'm just lucky with the ladies.
Which I was, even before the superhero gig. And which I am, even when I'm not wearing the suit.
Fuck. Now I'm wondering if my newest discovery slops over into my personal life. Do girls see Hunter Forrester, or are they seeing the guy who fucks them in the privacy of their heads when they knock one out?
It's bothering me more than it should.
"Hunt?"
"Yeah?"
"You gonna sit there all day, trying to figure out if you nailed this chick?"
* * *
Ethan sends me to the door to make sure somebody's home. Standard protocol.
The place still looks familiar. Not surprising. It looks like a third of the apartment complexes around town. Neat, clean, well-maintained. Built in a fake-o old style. Victorian? Edwardian? Jesus, I dunno. Someone could tell you, but it's not me.
A girl flings the door open. Blonde. Slim with curves that are in the right places now, but they're gonna be in all the wrong places after three kids, a shitty marriage, and a Vicodin addiction. She's the kind of pretty that turns brittle as it ages.
Doesn't matter; Hunter Junior still likes her. Whassup? he asks.
Dicks can be stupid. They're organs of very little brain.
"Hamilton?"
Her gaze scrapes me from head to toe, then back up again. "Sure, I'm Olivia Hamilton."
I step aside so she can get a load of the delivery truck and Ethan, who's leaning against its flank, pretending not to pick his nose. "Furniture delivery."
"Oh. Yeah. Bring it in."
"Where do you want it—the furniture?"
"In here. The living room."
Sure enough, her apartment, like so many others, opens directly into the living room.
"Cool," I say, then it's back to Ethan, who's waiting for an answer. Good guy Ethan, though, he delays the strike until we're neck deep in furniture.
"So?"
Can't shrug—this chair is awkward. Armchair. Plaid fabric. I could do this the easy way, balance it on one hand and throw it into place, but that draws attention I don't want or need. And the SuperCouncil frowns on showing off.
Unless you're one of the favored children.
Translation: Score a movie franchise or comic book series, then you're golden. Otherwise, they glare down their noses while they sip tea.
Different rules. It sucks, man.
"Don't know. They all blur after a while."
"Damn," he says, shaking his head/shoulders combo. "Wish I had your problems, asshole."
Yeah, saving girls from crime and fucking lots of hot chicks is a chore. But I'm a trooper.
"You ever think about settling down?" he asks.
"No. You?"
"Yeah. Sometimes."
Chairs in place. Time for the couch. We ease it through the door; me first, playing Ginger Rogers' role. She did everything Fred Astaire did, backwards and in high heels. That's how Ethan and I roll, too. He's not deft in reverse.
Easy …
Easy …
Blondie's standing there watching, chewing on a hangnail. Worried we're gonna bang up the doorjamb and cost her a security deposit.
Relax, I wanna say, we're pros. But really, we're just a couple of clowns who deliver furniture of dubious quality.
Then I spot it, hanging on the same hook, in the same apartment where I walked out on the starfish: the North Face jacket. Black.
Fuck. I remember now, she said her name was Olivia. Naturally I forgot.
If she recognizes me, she hasn't said. She glanced at us, yeah, but we're just furniture delivery guys. Remember the last guy who delivered your furniture?
Exactly.
Olivia Hamilton, aka the starfish, swirls her signature on the invoice. She's one of those girls, the ones who dot their 'i' with hearts.
Then she gives me a smile that's more teeth than lips, and says, "Thanks. You guys are just … super."
Eighteen
The proverbial "they" aren't bullshitting when they say there's a first time for everything.
My virginity? Lost it in a closet when I was thirteen.
First blowjob? In a closet when I was twelve.
First kiss? No closet—more like a cupboard. I was seven and she was eight.
First anal? Fifteen.
First bad guy? The night I become Super Fucking Hero. Garden variety date rapist.
First time a girl's made me in civilian life? Olivia Hamilton's apartment, the second time we met.
I land with a thump in the park. The homeless scatter. Nothing normal about that. Okay, so maybe I landed harder than I usually do.
Ted nods as I charge past him, headed towards the closet.
"Everything cool?"
"Got made today on the job," I tell him.
"Shit," he says.
"Shit," I agree.
"Sooner or later, it happens."
Into the closet. The fall barely registers. Then I charge towards Security, ready to plead my case with the SuperCouncil.
Okay, not totally ready. The SuperCouncil is like that. Intimidating. Between us, I think they get a kick out of it.
The forcefield blinks green, the usual left door swings open, and after what feels like several hours of walking the long corridor, I'm rewarded by the sight of Belinda's breasts behind not-thin-enough cotton.
They're twin oases after a long, hot slog through the barren desert.
There she goes, giving me her polite, distant smile. Every time we meet, it's like we've never met. She looks at me expectantly.
"Super Fucking Hero to see the SuperCouncil."
"Right," she says, running her finger down the clipboard. "Today they're in the Moon Room."
The door to her left swings open. Directly ahead of me is the Moon Room. The other day Clarissa Westlake's office was filling the same space.
Wait—no. Different corridor. When I shoot a glance over my shoulder, I notice the distinct lack of a steel door at Belinda's back.
But those tits …
Let's talk about the Moon Room before my cock gets all kinds of ideas about making a stand. Either it's on the moon, or the decorator is seriously out of this world.
My vote's for a plastic pimple on the face of the real moon.
The whole dome is see-thru, not a brace, support, or seam in sight. The view is cold, stark, remote. The landscape's only decoration is that pretty blue marble all the way over there.
"Are we really on the moon?"
A round of chuckles. That's when my attention latches onto the Moon Room's interior. Remember last time these self-important, righteous buffoons dragged me in for a meeting? Remember the fussy furniture?
Exact same furniture, different room. And I'm expected to sit at the head of the class in a chair built for an emaciated guest nobody likes. It's even less comfortable than it looks—and it looks like it was designed by Vlad the Impaler on one of his bad days.
That was a guy who had a lot of bad days.
"So," I say, addressing the peanut gallery. "I hear you guys don't want me having a sidekick."
Sam Johnson stands. The former Traction Man is today's mouthpiece. "It's not a matter of what we want, Mr Forrester. There are no vacant sidekick positions."
<
br /> "Yeah, because the guy in the bat suit gets them all. What about the rest of us? We have to suck it up and go sidekickless?"
"You don't understand, Mr Forrester. There are no sidekick names left in the register. If you take on a sidekick, he or she won't have a name or powers to protect his or herself."
"Wait—there's a sidekick register?"
"Of course. The SuperCouncil has to maintain some order. We can't have everyone taking on sidekicks willy nilly, otherwise they have a way of blossoming into …" His face turns sour. "… an entourage. Let's say we've had problems in the past. Not to mention, a superhero with too many sidekicks gets sloppy. There are a set number of superheroes, and a set number of sidekicks. That's how it is."
"I just want one. One itsy, bitsy sidekick." I hold up my fingers to demonstrate just how itsy bitsy.
Like the spider; that's how itsy bitsy.
Never mind that Mario is five-nine and about a hundred and fifty pounds.
Details.
"No. No sidekick, Mr Forrester, sanctioned or unsanctioned. Working with an unregistered sidekick can lead to Neutralizing."
It's not that I want a sidekick, it's that they're telling me I can't have one.
So mature, Super Fucking Hero, I hear you saying. Not denying it, folks. Sometimes I'm a pitiful slave to human nature, just like everyone else. People want what they can't have. What I can't have is a sidekick, so naturally I want one.
There has to be another way around this. A loophole.
If there's anyone who can find a hole, it's me.
"Okay. One more thing. May as well hit you all with it while I'm here. What do I look like to girls when I'm out of the suit?"
"Yourself, Mr Forrester." Not Johnson this time, but Clarissa Westlake. There's a small, satisfied on her lips. She's way out of my age group—a woman, not a girl—but I can see it now, that she was one hot piece of ass in her time. And one hell of a Super Fucking Villain.
I bet the former Super Fucking Hero never stood a chance.
Nineteen
