by Jack Bristol
"Stop it," she whispers.
"Just tell me. What's the big deal?"
"Why do you care?"
Why do I care? This is home. It's been home all my life. "Because I am Super Fucking Hero! This is my city, these are my people. And you mean to do them harm. I won't allow it."
She rushes me, which can't be as easy at it looks—not in those heels.
That's when I hear it, the faint whine of a very particular kind of gun, the kind only superheroes can get their mitts on.
"Get up. Drop the gun. Hands in the air."
Mario. Suhweet!
"That's my line," Jerry calls out.
"Who the fuck is that?" Starfish spits.
"That," I say, "is my motherfuckin' sidekick."
Everything explodes after that. Mario tosses me a fully loaded tool belt—one of mine—and then it's on like …
Not like Donkey Kong, but close.
Let's slo-mo. Don't want you missing a nuance of this ballet.
Starfish shoots. In that same moment, I nail the wannabe supervillain in the chest with my foot. She flies backwards, crash landing into the bank next door.
That was no Hunter Forrester kick. That was pure-D Super Fucking Hero.
The bitch in gold drags herself off the ground. Now she's pissed. I can tell by the way she's screaming, "You motherfucker, you said you don't have superpowers!"
Apparently, I do. "Surprise, bitch!" Do I tell her it's a surprise to me, too?
Nope.
I gotta feel happy for the supervillain she abandoned on her quest to claw her way up to the top of the heap, because this one isn't the brightest starfish in the sea. What does she do?
Rush me again.
Except she feints at the last minute, capturing Mario. Got to hand it to the guy, he stays cool. We've come a long way since that bridge.
"Shoot her," he calls out.
She grins at me over his shoulder. Those heels of hers put them on equal footing. "You fire, I'll fire. Bang. Just like that."
"Do it," he tells me. "It's worth it."
No, it's not. Occasionally—once, maybe twice in a lifetime—a superhero might encounter an evil so enormous that he or she has no choice to but to risk—and I fucking hate this term—collateral damage to defeat them.
Civilians should be protected at all cost; it's the superhero way.
But Starfish? She's a minor player. A nobody. So there's no way on earth I'm going to risk Mario. She's not worth the price.
Besides, he's my sidekick, official or not.
"Let him go."
"Hmm …" She thinks on it a moment. "What do I get out of that arrangement?"
"Me."
It's about now that I realize the crowd isn't going wild. They're frozen in place.
Fucking great. Just what was missing from this party. "Where are you, Messenger Twat?"
I glance away from Mario, from the golden anaconda around his neck, search for that little twerp Rolfe.
No sign of him.
But there's someone else, standing off to the side, watching. If it's humanly—or superhumanly—possible, his uniform is even more ridiculous than Rolfe's. This clown is dressed like Hermes, the Greek god.
"Nice sandals," I say. "Payless?"
"Target. Are you three done?"
"Almost. I'm trying to negotiate a hostage exchange."
"Ah," he says. "That won't be necessary. That one is coming with me." He nods at the Starfish.
The lightbulb comes on in my head. This guy is a messenger, but not for my team. He's a member of Team Evil.
"No," I say. "Not yet. If you interfere right now, that's a deus ex machina. Everyone's gonna be pissed, including me."
"Oh. I was just trying to—"
"Do your job, I know."
"Cool. Some people get weird about it."
This guy is downright reasonable. Wonder if we can swap our messenger for theirs?
"You want her? You'll owe me one," he continues.
Greeeeat. I was kind of hoping to avoid the whole, You help me, I help you, thing. No wonder he walks the dark side of the street.
"Oh, just take her then," I say. But does he move? Negative. He's tapping his leather sandal, waiting on me to change my mind.
Favors are valuable currency—anywhere.
Right about now, Starfish realizes we've got company. "Who the fuck is he?"
I give her the raised eyebrow. Just the one. Two would be a waste. "You don't know your organization's messenger?"
Headshake.
"She's new," he says.
I look back at her. "How long have you been a sidekick?"
She shrugs. "A few months."
"And you're already lobbying to become a supervillain?"
"Newbies," the messenger says. "They don't always understand their place in the food chain."
Starfish shakes that pretty golden hair. "The man keeping the woman down."
I file that away for future reference. Because it's gonna be important someday. Not today, but maybe in my next adventure. Meanwhile, my mouth doesn't want to waste the opportunity to twist her meaning. "Hey, a lot of women enjoy that. Beg for it, even. I should know."
"Well, well. What have we here? A hatful of assholes."
Fucking perfect. Our little party just sprouted another member. This time it's Messenger Gnome, the one from Team Good Guys.
"Oh, look," I say, shooting the Nazi poster child with my best stink eye. "It's Messenger Boy. Come to play with the grownups?"
"SuperCouncil wants to talk to you."
I bet they do. "Gonna have to wait. Got ourselves a hostage situation." To the Starfish: "Me for my sidekick. What do you say?"
Is it just me or is Messenger Boy liking that idea a little too much? Sadistic fuck.
But the Starfish, she looks uncertain. Must be her first hostage. "How does it work?"
I count it off on my fingers. "I walk over there and turn around. You push him away. Then you can hold your cool gun to my head."
"I don't know." She chews on her fingernail. Bad habit, but I'm not gonna judge. We've all got them. Not telling you what mine is—you'll figure it out eventually, if you stick around.
Time for the secret weapon. Ladies, you're gonna hate me. That's okay, I'm cool with being called a pig—remember? Doesn't mean I think less of girls and women—how could I? You're better than beer, money, and pizza.
And football.
Yes, really.
"Thing is, Starfish, men are like handbags: if you want your ass to look smaller, you need a bigger guy."
Team Evil's messenger laughs. Not my guy, though. Turkey. Pressed, sandwich-grade turkey. He's mashing his lips together so tightly, they resemble avian lunchmeat.
Bet he's fun at parties.
The golden girl bursts into tears. "Are you saying I'm fat?"
Jesus Christ. Now I feel like shit. "No!"
"But you said—"
I march over there, grab Mario out of her grasp, shove him aside, and insert myself in his previous position. "Forget what I said. Your ass is gorgeous. I wanted to fuck you, remember?"
"Yes," she sniffles.
"You can wipe your face on my T-shirt if you want."
"Thanks."
Behind me, she rubs her face on my shirt. Anyone know how to get gold paint out of cotton? It's not my favorite shirt, but I hate shopping unless I can buy it online. Plus, limited budget here. I'm a furniture delivery guy.
A rich-as-fuck poor furniture delivery guy, but … semantics.
"You okay?" I ask her.
"I'm okay."
"Let's get back on track then, okay?"
"Okay."
"So how does the next part of your plan go?"
Long pause. The kind that's filled with doubts and discarded plans. "I'm gonna take you back to my lair."
"You have a lair?"
"Not yet. I only just moved here. All I've got is an apartment."
"So, you're gonna take me back to your apartme
nt?"
Behind me, she nods.
"Okay, let's do this. I presume you're gonna torture me?"
"I have to, I'm sorry. Then I'll kill you."
"Seems pretty supervillain-ish."
"You think so?" she says brightly.
"Yeah. Ten bucks says you'll win your supervillain wings. Let's go."
Together, we start inching away.
Logic—and probably science—dictates that something can't just come out of nowhere. But that's what happens when a meteor drops on her head. A big one. A fucking huge monster of a burning rock that pins her to the ground. She's splayed out like …
Like a starfish. Is that ironic? Alanis Morissette's song really clouded the issue for me.
I heard the faint whistle of impending doom and leaped forward in that split second before the space rock hit.
Her arm is still around my neck, isn't it?
Yep.
Not that I'm a sissy or anything, but I really want to get this thing off me. This isn't a horror novel—or a novel. So I drop it on the ground, nudge it over to its shoulder.
Fuuuuck. We just got deus ex machina-ed. The one thing I wanted to avoid.
Bad metaphor time. A deus ex machina is like …
It's like you're fucking, and you're this close—really fucking close—to an orgasm. Then the guy next door swoops in and has the orgasm you've been working so hard for. Defeating Starfish was meant to be my O.
My sidekick's standing off to the side, eyes bugged. That could have been him, he's thinking. I can read it on his face in bold type, one of the big, blocky, sans serif fonts. Impact or Headline.
Thing is, it couldn't have been him. Can't say more than that at the moment.
Okay, a small hint. Miniscule.
Only one supervillain hurls meteors. Not Meteor Man. He was a superhero. A fabricated superhero, created specifically for a travesty on the silver screen and a limited-run series of comic books. The SuperCouncil quietly shunted him off to a quiet corner of the country afterward. He still fights crime, but only by playing armchair superhero during episodes of CSI and Criminal Minds. All that hard work gets done by other real fake people.
Confused? Me, too.
Point is, there's a supervillain whose favorite weapon is the meteor—Professor Meteor.
We've got history, Professor Meteor and me.
Professor Meteor and I?
Whatever. We've got history. The guy's got no interest in my sidekick—only me.
"You okay, man?" Mario asks.
"All good. You?"
He jerks his chin up. "All good, man."
"Thanks for the save."
Big grin. "Any time."
The two messengers circle around the now-steaming meteor.
"What is that?" Messenger Boy's nose has gone pig. And it's twitching.
His opposite shakes his curls. "No idea."
I circle around to see what all the fuss is about. In death, Starfish's mouth is gaping open. Something's up with her tongue, though. It should be pinkish red, but it's brown and—
"Ah," I say in the wise sort of voice that doesn't give any indication that I was just as ignorant, a few day ago. "Starfishes eat and shit through the same hole. What you're looking at is a turd."
Totally worth it to see Messenger Boy choke back the vomit.
Take your victories where you can get 'em, folks, no matter how small.
Hate to admit it, but I'm feeling woozy. A few moments ago, I was all jacked up on adrenalin and testosterone. Now I'm crashing. Got a lot to deal. Up until recently, this superhero gig was linear. Stop the bad guy, save the girl, fuck the girl.
It's still linear, but the line part of linear is squiggly. Takes a lot of detours. And the way isn't always brightly lit.
Problem #1: Am I a superhero or aren't I?
Problem #2: Super Fucking Villain wants my help busting her boys out of the SuperPrison.
Problem #3: Professor Meteor is in town.
Problem #4: Messenger Boy is here. He's always a problem. The little bastard never brings good news. He's the angel of suck.
Problem #5: Olivia Hamilton is dead.
Yeah, I'm the good guy, I'm supposed to be over-freakin'-joyed when the bad guys topple. But I want to see them in prison, not in the ground. Wannabe supervillain, former sidekick or not, the Starfish was just some girl. Someone's daughter.
Messenger Boy finally gets a grip on his nausea. You'd think the guy never saw shit before. Doesn't he own a mirror?
Low blow. Good, wasn't it?
"It pains me to say it, Mr Forrester, but you have to come with me. You and your little sidekick, too."
Interesting that he paraphrased a movie with munchkins. I'll laugh later. Right now I'm too busy vanishing …
Thirty-Five
… and reappearing in Superhero Headquarters.
Once again, we've circumvented the whole Security rigmarole. Belinda and her tits are smiling at me, zero recognition on her face—as per usual—waiting on me to spit out my name.
"Hunter Forrester."
"And sidekick," Messenger Boy adds.
Cool, Mario is here, too. Two against one. We could shove the little shit into a locker, maybe flush his head in the toilet.
One day, Rolfe. One day.
In the meantime, it's Belinda and her holy rack. She consults the clipboard. "They're in the Desert Room."
If by Desert Room she means desert, that's exactly where we find them, behind door number one. The sun and heat waste no time sucking all the moisture out of my skin. All three of us, Messenger Boy in the lead, traipse across the burning sand, where someone's set up one of those tent pavilion thingys. If you've seen any Arab movie ever, you know what I'm talking about. The kind of temporary structure that's made of gauzy panels and stuffed with blindingly busy rugs and lots of pillows.
The entire SuperCouncil is lounging around, gobbling dates and sipping tea.
Sam Johnson is the first to swallow and speak. "Messenger Boy, what took you so long?"
"Boss fight," I say, cutting him off at the knees. Him in this scenario being the twerp.
Sam raises both eyebrows. "We trust you resolved the issue."
"The villain known as Starfish was killed, but not by me."
"By who? A civilian?"
Headshake. "Professor Meteor."
They do that thing where they exchange glances. The pause is about ten-months pregnant.
"He was there?"
"No, just one of his meteors. But he's close by, guaranteed."
"I'm inclined to agree."
"So, I'm back in the saddle?"
Clarissa Westlake rises from her nest of cushions, wearing a genie outfit. Very phoenix-like, the way she stands. "We didn't take your powers, Hunter. You put them down. And you can pick them up again just as easily. As you discovered."
"But … you Neutralized me."
"Bygones," Sam Johnson says quickly—too quickly. "Your city needs you."
"So that's it? Reinstated?"
"Reinstated," he confirms.
"Okay, cool." Glancing around, I wonder how far I can push them. All the way; why not? "I want an official sidekick."
There they go again, swapping mysterious, fully-loaded glances. It's enough to make a guy paranoid.
Sam Johnson says, "You can have your sidekick on a provisional basis. If any of the other superheroes ask, it would be, uh, in our best interests if you lie about your request date. If you could backdate it, say, eight years, we'd be appreciative."
See my luck? I'm about to push it even harder. "How appreciative?"
Westlake laughs. "Appreciative enough to give you your sidekick. Let me walk you out."
"Wait—what's his sidekick name?"
"Sidekick."
"That's the best you can do? Sidekick?" I glance at Mario who seems cool with the designation. "You're okay with this? You don't want to shoot for Super Mario?"
"I'm cool."
Shrug. The guy's easy to pl
ease. "Okay. Let's fly."
"Wait—" Johnson says. "See Belinda on the way out. She'll have a sidekick packet for you to take home, uh, Mr Sidekick."
Westlake makes good on her promise to walk us to the door. It's slow going through all this sand. I guess we could fly, but I want my first flight again to be solo. Drink it in, you know?
"Is there anything you want to tell me, Mr Forrester?"
She knows. Or suspects. Which makes me wonder if she's left the Super Fucking Villain mantle entirely in her past, and if the SuperCouncil knows.
"Want to tell you? No. But I will tell you. I saw Super Fucking Villain. She wants my help breaking her minions out of the SuperPrison."
An elegant brow rises. "Indeed. And do you plan to assist her?"
"I'm one of the good guys, remember?"
"It's a thin line we all walk, Mr Forrester—Hunter. So easy to slip. Look at me—I Fell."
"Yeah, but you Fell on the good side."
"Did I? Sometimes both sides look identical. Be careful out there. And good luck with Professor Meteor."
I nod and then she treks back into the desert, bound for their otherworldly oasis.
"Come on, man." I clap Mario on the shoulder. "Let's go ask Belinda's tits about your packet. Then I'll take you to meet my gadget guy. Any ideas about your sidekick suit?"
Thirty-Six
Nothing left of Starfish but a dent in the precinct house's landing.
"I'll pay for it."
"We're insured," Jerry Kern says. "Don't worry about it."
"No, I'm buying this round. I owe the city something. This shouldn't have to come out of their pockets."
Jerry thinks about it a moment, then nods.
I'm back in the suit, the cape, the boots, the mask. Mario—AKA the newly minted Sidekick—is with my gadget guy, working on his costume. I told him he was lucky because everything goes with black.
"Has anyone claimed her?"
He pauses for a moment, then: "She's gone. Someone took her body from the morgue. Know anything about that?"
No, but I can guess. "One of life mysteries, Kern."
* * *
Across the city, women and girls are returning to their high-powered jobs, their have-to jobs, careers they love and hate, their marriages, their friendships and families. The second Starfish was crushed by a cosmic boulder, her mojo snapped, leaving them in charge of their own destinies again—for better or worse.
