by Jack Bristol
"There's only one dog in this room, Professor, and it's not me."
"Ouch. You hurt my feelings." Her smile stretches. Looks painful. "Wait, I don't have feelings." The smile fades. "I understand you saw my boys."
"Maybe I did."
"Hunter, are they okay?" Genuine concern stains her words. At least I think it's genuine. Bit hard to tell with snakes.
But like most guys, I'm part dumbass, so a piece of me softens up. Not my cock—another piece. "They're fine. In good shape. Angry, but not at you. They should be."
Knock me the fuck down with a feather, because the next thing out of her mouth is, "I know." She inches closer, those sweet curves swaying. "Between us, Hunter, I'm going to get them out."
"Ha!" Great joke. Best I've heard all day. But the day is so young it's jailbait. "There's no way."
"There's always a way, and you're going to help me."
"You're crazy, lady."
"Those are my boys in there. My family. I won't let them rot in a SuperCell."
My memory scoots back to that day in the garden room. "You left them behind. Abandoned them."
"They'd have been killed if I hadn't."
"The SuperCouncil said they'd be released when you die or retire."
Cold laugh. Arctic. Diamond sharp. "Those lying fucks. The only way my boys are getting out is if I help them. And I will help them."
"So that's what this is about then? The text messages, meeting here?"
She snaps to attention. "No. Not this time. I'm here on behalf of another."
"Another supervillain?"
"Yes. I have information that could help you in the search for the little bitch you know as the Starfish.
"Yeah, I already figured out we've got a new supervillain. Jealous?"
The laugh kicks its way out of her throat. "Oh, God no. She wishes. The Starfish is a former sidekick. She broke away from her supervillain because she is a woman with ambition. And I do admire ambition, but her methods … ugh."
My brain adds this all up old school, using an abacus and some of my fingers. "So she wants to become a supervillain?"
"Not entirely stupid, are you, Hunter?"
"I have my moments." I rub my forehead. "What else can you tell me?"
She shrugs one of those slender shoulders. It's almost easy to forget she's not just a regular girl. "Not much. She's sowing dissent here because one of the best ways to become a supervillain is to destroy or dethrone a superhero."
"Me."
Affirmative head tilt. She's that kind of elegant girl.
"But why me?"
"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." Professor Amy Hart laughs. "I'm joking. I just always wanted to say that. But seriously, I can't tell you because I don't know. You'll have to figure that out on your own."
"So why tell me this much?"
It's cute, the way she glances at the wall, her nose wrinkling. Yeah, I was going to lean against that thing, too, but remember what I said earlier about this place and social diseases? Wasn't kidding, folks. In fact, if anyone wants to discover the source of most pathogens, quit looking at monkeys and chickens and run a swab over these walls. In fact, just wave it around. Go on, wave it.
Congratulations, you have just captured Ebola, Marburg, and a hundred other obscure diseases on a nub of cotton.
"My source asked nicely if I would pass on the message."
"Wow—" I can't help myself—I can't. "So you're someone's flunky?"
The only sign of irritation is the slight flaring of her delicate nostrils. I'm half tempted to tell her she's got a bat in the cave, but that has other connotations in the world of superheroes and supervillains. Mention a bat and a cave, and everyone's gonna expect the guy in the bat suit to show up. Depending on the audience, there'll be screaming and fleeing or cheering.
"He asked nicely. I agreed. As a favor. Don't read between the lines, because there's nothing there, Hunter."
Not gonna point out that she's an English lit professor, that reading between the lines is part of her job description.
"He who?"
It's hypnotizing, the way she flicks back her long, dark hair, bites tiny white teeth down on that shiny red bottom lip.
"Oh no, sister," I continue. "Don't play those games with me. You forget who I am—was. I'm immune to your tricks."
"Yes," she says, fixing her dark gaze on me, "you are, aren't you? Maybe you're not what you think you are—or rather, aren't."
"Man, for an English lit professor, you lack a distinct inability to form coherent sentences."
"He's a colleague. A supervillain. That's all you need to know. It's a pity we're on different teams. We could have had …" Her gaze flicks down to my mouth. "…fun."
"I try not to fuck evil bitches, if I can help it."
There's dark magic in the way she saunters past me, headed for less disease-infested air.
"And yet, you did."
Thirty-Two
Lots of clues in that conversation. But as usual, I was busy reading the stuff on the lines, not the scribbles in between them.
Look, if you're gonna write stuff between the lines, use something other than invisible ink, okay?
Anyway, she's already vanished by the time I stroll back into the bar itself, blue balls clanging in my boxer briefs.
Okay, maybe I stopped off at the janitor's closet on my way out. I went in, shut the door, and nothing happened. Then I may or may not have pissed in the bucket.
Ted's standing behind the bar, cleaning the same-old glass, shaking his head. "Man."
"Man," I agree. "Seriously, the band didn't learn a new song?"
"Nope."
"What do you hear?"
He shrugs. "Carpenters. Top of the World."
"Damn. Sucks to be you."
* * *
Saturday. No work. Jerry and Mario both found better things to do (their jobs) while I was schmoozing with evil.
Most Saturdays I fight crime and catch up on sleep.
I'm all caught up on sleep. And there's crime to be fought, but it's not my job.
Maybe I could become a cop.
Ha-ha-ha!
Or finish college.
Wouldn't even be the odd guy out. Colleges these days are filled with grayhairs, stuffing their brains with learning, before some form of dementia kicks in and slowly swallows their education and memories, one cruel mouthful at a time. There's no supervillain that can out-asshole Alzheimer's.
I could be that guy—you know the one. The annoying older person who never seems to quite "get" it, always waving their hand in the air when the clock's down to its last thirty seconds.
I could.
But I'm not.
Got better ideas. Gonna analyze everything Super Fucking Villain told me until it's the texture of post-chewed mystery meat.
Hear that sound? Smell something burning?
This is my brain on thugs.
Cut me some slack—been waiting for two novellas to use that line.
Okay, where was I?
Thinking. Idly Googling.
Something was said and I missed it—at least once.
Super Fucking Villain said I fucked someone evil. In the moment, I assumed she misspoke, that she meant herself. But if you read the first installment, you know that never happened—though I tried. Several times.
Need fresh air to kickstart this slow-moving engine in my skull. So I take it outside, onto the balcony. Slow-moving traffic on the ground. Everyone's on Saturday speed. Not going anywhere fast.
A new supervillain is a problem. Balance—both sides are crazy about maintaining it. Finding a new superhero takes time. There's a process I'm not privy to, a formula, but the way the SuperCouncil acts, it's a real pain in the ass.
Back to the TV and its bad news. Good thing only a handful of people know Hunter Forrester was Super Fucking Hero, otherwise they'd be crowded on the street below.
Too much like Resident Evil: Afterlife for my comfort level. Or Wor
ld War Z. Not much difference between a mob of people and an ocean of zombies.
Mob screaming for my blood.
Starfish pins.
Starfish.
Into the elevator, down to Mrs Margarita's floor. No answer.
Into the elevator: the sequel. Down to where Reed is flipping through a yellowing copy of Reader's Digest.
"How old is that thing?"
He shows me the cover. 1977. May. Got articles by Alex Haley, pre scandal, and Watergate, post scandal.
"You know it's 2014, right?"
"Not everywhere," he says cryptically. Yes, I know I used an adverb, but I used accurately. "What can I do you for, Mr Forrester?"
"Last time you saw Mrs Margarita, did you notice if she was wearing a starfish pin?"
"Like a badge or a brooch?"
"Exactly like that."
He thinks on it a moment. "She has one, but she's not wearing it."
"Interesting."
He flips the page, keeps his smile down low, where Nixon's the only one at risk of being blinded. "I hope I was helpful."
"Yes, but I don't know how yet."
"It'll come to you," he says.
Thirty-Three
And it does come to me.
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing inside Olivia Hamilton's apartment, smoking a cigarette in a shadowy corner.
Rewind. There's no cigarette, no shadowy corner. In my defense, I've watched a lot of X-Files reruns.
But I am in her apartment. Window was open. Same window I flew out just days ago, evading a starfish in the bedroom. For the record, I don't think it's fair to call it breaking and entering if you're not breaking anything.
Snooping isn't what I do. I'm the biff, bam, pow guy. This sneaky stuff isn't for me. Still, can't help myself poking through her bits and pieces.
My testosterone tells me her panty drawer is a good place to start. But when I pull the drawer open, no panties. Nothing but a box of pins.
Starfish pins.
That little bitch.
Olivia Hamilton is the Starfish.
Her laptop is my next target. It wants a password.
Starfish?
Nope.
Password?
Nope, she's smarter than that.
I've got it.
SuperFuckingHero.
Bingo. I'm in faster than a cock in a slippery hole.
Seconds later, I'm shoving pieces into the invisible jigsaw puzzle in my head. The Hamilton girl is Starfish and she's using her podcast to work some kind of black magic mojo on the women of this city. When Mrs Margarita was talking about her radio show, she meant on the Internet. All of Nancy Sparkles' talk about a radio station was just her being contrary. Guess I wasn't paying her enough to be completely honest.
Ten bucks says Olivia Hamilton is downtown, outside the precinct house, the beating heart of that mob.
The smart thing to do would be to stay put. Sit here until she shows up—which she will, sooner or later.
Meanwhile, I can go on a panty hunt. Maybe see if she's got a toy collection …
Or I can smack her in the box with the gauntlet right now.
Okay, in twenty minutes or so.
What? I have to wait on a cab. Got no flying powers, remember?
Meanwhile, I wonder where she keeps her panties?
Thirty-Four
Nobody cares about the taxi or the passenger it dumps on the sidewalk. I'm an insanely sexy hunk of man, but it takes more than a regular guy to divert an enraged crowd's bloodlust.
It takes a superhero—which I'm not.
So when I jog up the precinct house's steps, plant myself on its doorstep and holler at the mob, they ignore me.
Good things I've got friend in high place.
I poke my head through the double glass doors. "Captain Kern around? Tell him Hunter's here, and I know who our problem child is."
Poor officer, he thinks I'm a loon, but he says, "I'll tell him."
Female officers are thin on the ground in there. As in, not a single one in sight. Normally around here it's close to fifty-fifty, skirts and pants. They must be outside with the rest of the female population.
A moment later, Jerry's at the door. "Who is it?"
"Olivia Hamilton."
"You sure?"
"I'd bet her life on it." Big grin. "Got a megaphone? Cops in movies always have megaphones. At least, they used to in the 80s."
"You open your mouth and everyone will know who you are. Is that a chance you want to take?"
"I have to. She's doing all this, making people crazy. Unbalancing the balanced."
"Why?"
"Me. She wants me dead or Neutralized. Guess she hasn't realized I'm toast."
"How'd you figure?"
When I tell him he rolls his eyes. "Sounds legit."
"Actually, it did."
"You think you can fix this?"
Yes. No. Maybe. Look, it doesn't matter; outcome be damned, I have to try. "I don't know. But I have to try."
He goes back inside, returns a moment later with the metal cone. "Good luck."
Me and my megaphone, we swagger to the dead center of the landing. I lift it to my mouth, say, "Olivia Hamilton, you have a phone call at reception, bitch."
A hush punches the crowd in its collective throat. Slowly, the human sea parts.
(A guy could get an ego, get to thinking he's God-like.)
On the far bank, a star shines. Looks like Olivia Hamilton got finger-banged by Goldfinger. Gold hair, gold skin. She's completely naked, apart from the golden hoop winking at me from her bellybutton and the gold high heeled boots.
I'm no fashion genius, but it's too much of a good thing, you know? Even Super Fucking Villain broke the monotony with the black F on her suit.
You know what this moment needs? A soundtrack. Closer, Nine Inch Nails. Marilyn Manson, (S)aint. Something raw and sexual like that. There's something animalistic about the way Olivia Hamilton closes the distance between us.
"S'up, you crazy bitch?"
"Nice," she says. "Do you kiss your dead mother with that mouth?"
Low blow. Bet I can go lower. "Yep. She kisses the same way you fuck." I say it into the megaphone, nice and loud. Sorry, Mom.
A collective gasp from the crowd.
Her lips curl up at the edges. Looks nothing like a smile. "What are you doing at my little party?"
"Your party?" I nod to the nearest placard. Jesus Hates Super Fucking Hero. "Funny, I thought this was my party. All the cards are for me."
She turns to the crowd—her hoodwinked, bamboozled mob. "Do you know who this is? Do you?"
She's pointing at me. Rude. When I tell her so she looks at me like my head fell off.
"When you point a finger at someone else, you're pointing three back at yourself."
Starfish bitch ignores that one. "The man you see standing here is Super Fucking Hero! The very man who deserted you when you needed him most."
"Not anymore, I'm not. They took my badge and weapon."
"Liar!"
Holding up both hands: "True story."
"I don't believe you."
"Fine, don't believe me. Doesn't make it less true."
She falters. Aww, the comeback got stuck in her throat. Then: "Prove it. Not to me. To them." A golden hand sweeps across the crowd.
"Hit me."
"That won't prove anything. You're bigger than me—and stronger."
True. But if she's a sidekick busting out, trying to become a bigger fish, she should be able to put a good dent in me.
"Man," I say. "I bet you were a lousy sidekick. What did you call yourself?"
Her mouth drops open. Guess she wasn't expecting that. Thank you, Super Fucking Villain, I owe you one—as much as it pains me.
Starfish recovers, but it takes her a minute. "Not your business."
"Sure it is, sugartits. You made it my business by shitting all over my city. I'm not the reason for this—you are. These poor people, why don't yo
u tell them the truth, that you're not a—what did you call yourself?"
"Life coach," Jerry supplies. He's on the other side of the door, but he opens the door wide enough to poke his answer through the slit.
"A life coach." I say it like it's impressive enough to be synonymous with astronaut or special needs teacher.
"I am a life coach—and a very good one. The women of this city need me to unshackle them from the tyranny of men."
"Jesus." I look at Jerry. "You hearing this crap?" Back to the golden Froot Loop. "That's the biggest load of balls I've heard today, and that's saying something, because I've already heard a huge load of balls this morning. You don't want to help them, you want to use them. Because you're just a poor little sidekick who wants to hoist herself up the food chain of evil. Truth is, you're too ridiculous to be a supervillain. Best case … you're a minor villain. The kind who buddies up to the supervillain in movies, because you're inconsequential on your own."
"Fuck you," she spits.
"Even your insults suck. Really. You need to go home and leave crime to the big boys and girls."
Next thing I know, there's a golden gun winking in my face. Makes me wonder where she was hiding it.
Anyone else thinking what I'm thinking?
Machete.
Hey, if a girl can hide a cell phone up there, why not a tiny gun?
That's kind of hot. Weird, but hot.
"There you go," she says, "just another man telling a woman what to do. Like I'm not entitled to have ambitions, to work for what I want."
"Really?" I appeal to the crowd. "Are you all swallowing this crap? Tell them why me, Starfish. Tell them why you picked my city."
"The women here need me."
"No, they don't. Some of the most high-powered chairs in town are filled with women. Brilliant, competent women. And when Super Fucking Hero was still around, the girls of this city were safe. So … what exactly have you done for them? Besides nothing."
"It had to be here. Had to be you."
"Why?"
"Because you're important."
I shrug, arms folded. Trying to pull her pin, make her shatter through the power of being cool, calm, and completely myself. "No, I'm not. Especially not now. Thanks to you, I'm just average Joe. Not a superpowered bone in my body—not even that one." Sorry, dude. I'll make it up to you later, if we make it through. "Who was your supervillain?"
