The She-Hulk Diaries

by Acosta, Marta

  Two things happened so quickly that I could barely comprehend them. A window midway down the adjacent building shattered, and a giant lasso flew out and looped around Shulky, jerking tight. She grabbed onto the lasso and recognized what it was immediately: a length of emergency fire hose.

  No mere human was strong enough to hold on to her deadfall weight, yet someone or something was not only holding on, but drawing her up toward the window.

  Could Patty have brought a winch up here so fast? Shulky made it to the window, where a fire blanket had been placed over the broken shards of glass. Her legs were too long to swing them over, so she dived through the window, tucked into a roll, and stood up.

  She saw a tall, slim man wearing dark jeans, a black hoodie, and a green ski mask. She liked him immediately.

  He smiled and asked, “Are you okay, Miss She-Hulk?”

  Shulky raised the fire hose lasso over her head and let it drop to the floor. “Always am, hon, but tonight it’s thanks to youse!” She went to the window and peered out toward the roof of the neighboring building. The range of visibility was limited, but she couldn’t see any more activity.

  Patty called up with the bullhorn, saying, “All clear, She-Hulk! Come on down.”

  Shulky shouted, “Gimme a sec, Sarge!” She turned back to the guy in the hoodie. “It looks like the twerp perp got away. Thanks for the assist.”

  “Happy to help! Gotta run.” He waved by holding up his hand and moving his forearm from side to side, the way a kid or a parade princess waves.

  Shulky said, “Not so fast, stranger. Introduce yourself. My friends call me Shulky.” She reached out to shake his hand, but he stepped back toward the door.

  “Oh, I know who you are! I heard people talking about the moonbeam raygun and everyone said you’d show up to stop the criminal. I really wanted to meet you. You’re awesome!” He ducked his head shyly. “And so beautiful.”

  “Thanks, sugar. I think you’re pretty swell, too. You’ll have to come with me to meet Sergeant Patty and then we’re going to the Avengers Mansion. I have a lot of questions for you, and not fun questions like leather or lace—and, for the record, the answer is always leather with me. Reports have to be made.” She thought for a second and said, “You can fill them out.”

  He shifted from foot to foot. She thought she could hear him breathing harder.

  “It’s too dangerous for me,” he blurted. “Sorry, ma’am.” And then he sprinted out of the room.

  Shulky followed, but she lost a fraction of a second when her heel caught on the reel of fire hose in the doorway. Then she tore off after him. She ran so fast down the hall that she skidded into the wall. She yanked on the door to the staircase, but it didn’t open, so she wrenched it back, ripping it off its hinges.

  She catapulted herself over the stair railing and landed so hard that the landing collapsed under her feet and cement dust flew up. “Brand-new boots,” she bitched. She kicked the rubble away and raced down the stairs.

  When she reached the ground level, the door to the street was ajar. She yanked it open and stepped out. Her new friend was nowhere to be seen. “Ma’am!” she said, laughing, and made her way to Patty at the bisected squad car.

  Patty saw her, shrugged, and reported, “The aforementioned asshole disappeared. My guys are searching for him.”

  “I don’t think they’ll find him. He’s the same brat who trashed Broadway. I take it personal when someone endangers Wicked.”

  “Did you get any clues on who he is? And who threw out the rope to you?”

  “It was a fire hose, necessity being the whatever of invention. They both wore masks and didn’t identify themselves, but they must be superhuman,” Shulky said. “The power in the creep’s moonbeam blaster would have ripped the arm off a normal dude, and the other guy lifted me up easily and ran off with super speed.”

  Patty chewed her lower lip and said, “It bothers me when new ones show up on the radar without any warning.”

  “Tell me about it. The paperwork is horrible. I’ll check in at the Mansion and see if anyone’s heard anything.”

  “Didn’t you think there was a Dr. Doom style to the moonbeam raygun?”

  “There’s a Doomish influence, but Victor von Doom’s work is precise. There’s an artistry to his madness and there’s always a clear agenda. It could be a copycat.”

  Patty shook her head. “Tonight’s bad enough without talking about goddamn von Doom. Oh, I almost forgot. One of my officers found this in the alley.” She pulled a Swiss Army knife from her pocket. “It looks like the brat hacked the attachments. If you make anything of it, tell me.”

  One of the officers gave Shulky a lift to the Mansion, and they both laughed about Thor’s complicated family before she went in through a side entrance.

  She was about to shift back to make me do the paperwork, but then she realized that I wouldn’t let her out to go dancing later. So she sat down and completed the superhuman incident forms.

  1. Identity of superhuman if available.

  No name given. Hereafter referred to as Superbrat.

  2. Please describe the physical appearance of the superhuman and detail every anomaly (i.e., did the superhuman possess an extra head, fins, prehensile toes, etc.?).

  Normal-size male with dipshit giggle hahahahaha.

  [She scribbled a fairly accurate cartoon of the criminal, added giant ears poking out through the ski mask and wiggly “stink” lines, and titled it “Artist’s Rendition.”]

  3. What powers did the superhuman exhibit? Circle all that apply: X-ray vision; fireball throwing and/or combustible abilities (please describe); elastic limbs and/or morphable body (please specify); sonic speed; command of wind, rain, rocks, or animals (please specify all); invisibility; magic and/or alchemy (please describe); ability to twin or replicate; other (please specify):

  Superhuman strength, agility, good but stooopid invention skilz.

  4. Did the superhuman speak, and if so, what language and what dialect? List verbatim all comments made by the superhuman.

  Standard English, no accent, said “I dreamed of meeting you She-Hulk because you’re so super hawt and fantastic and in real life you are even more sexy, geniusy, superfantastic, and incredulicious. I am in awe of your awesomeness! You are the most cooltastic greatest superhero of them all—way greater than Iron Man, who isn’t hilarious or as gorgeous as you!!!”

  5. What was the superhuman wearing? Did this outfit have any special features or emblems?

  Looked like a loozer barista with a blue mask. Stooopid cape like from a Halloween costume. Refer to Artist’s Rendition above.

  She-Hulk examined the knife, which seemed to have been taken apart and reassembled but not obviously altered. It had handy tools, though, so she slid it into her boot.

  Shulky checked her aPhone and saw a message from Lindsay, who was in town hanging with Perez and Tweeted a direct message: “Shulky—Mtg Madge after her tour rehearsal tonight. Partay w/us?”

  Which is how Shulky found herself doing the samba with a Brazilian footballer at 3:00 a.m. even though I was screaming, “Take me home!” On the plus side, he was an amazing dancer and his body was as muscled and sinuous as, well, a Brazilian footballer.

  STRICT LIABILITY

  FEBRUARY 10

  I woke up feeling okay since Shulky was the one who’d gone to bed—by herself amazingly—which is a relief since Azzan is doing me a special with an early morning session. As I was going to the bathroom, I almost tripped on the silver boots Shulky had tossed on the floor. Then I saw this journal open on my desk.

  She’s responsible for all the additions to this entry: the picture of a dancing penis in the margin; the hammerhead shark in a suit; the obscenities. She’s a remarkably good cartoonist, but her handwriting is so loopy and childlike. That’s her note to “Send Pattycakes Joocey Jooce coupons,” which is thoughtful of her, and “Tony is a such a DICK!!!” which is not, but she still resents him from the time he stole her powe
rs. Okay, Tony is a dick.

  She left something else between these pages. An ivory three-by-five card that read:

  California-in-Manhattan Alumni Single

  Professionals Meet-up!

  Open to all under 35 single alumni of UC system,

  USC, Stanford, Cal Poly, etc.

  Tuesday nights, 7–10

  Register at website for event schedule and details.

  Condoms and now this. Even Shulky feels like I need matchmaking help. I put the card in the frame of my dresser mirror. I can go this evening and, who knows, maybe I’ll have an actual date for Valentine’s Day! Or I could be on my way for my legitimately postponed VD.

  9:40 A.M.

  Fritz leaned into my doorway and asked if I was settled in. Since our uncomfortable lunch, he’s become friendlier and given me recommendations for the closest and best sushi, the closest and best Russian bath, and the closest and best pharmacist. In return, I told him funny (though not confidential) details of my work at GLKH.

  He grinned and said, “Feel free to use me as a sounding board for any questions about maritime law—don’t laugh, because you never know when you’ll have a case that deals with pirates.”

  If he wasn’t a coworker and wasn’t married, I’d practice my flirting with him.

  10:45 A.M.

  Had a break so I called Dahlia.

  ME: I’m going to a singles meet-up for UC grads tonight. You should come.

  D: I’m not single. I’m playing the field.

  ME: Then expand your field.

  D: That sounds too sixties expand-your-consciousnessish. If you want moral support I can go with you.

  ME: I want moral support. Please come with me.

  D: No, you have to learn to stand on your own two size-12 feet.

  ME: Nine and a half. All I need is a wing-chick.

  D: I have been to those alumni meet-ups. They’re full of corporate snobs who act like I’m practically a hooker because I have a hair salon. Hair salon equals massage parlor equals streetwalker.

  ME: Maybe you’re right. Maybe I won’t go.

  D: Jen, you’re a first-rate lawyer at an elite law firm. You’re supposed to be one of the snobs. Go and intersnob with them. Snobnet. Whatever.

  ME: I’m not very good at chitchat.

  D: Oh, you poor naive snob-impaired geekette! Just mention QUIRC and GLKH and your superheroes affiliation, and let them do all the sucking up. Take your business cards. I expect updates at precise thirty-minute intervals.

  ME: But if my workday is really busy… maybe next week…

  D: I really don’t see how the subject of Fringe Theory’s “Stargazing” can be so shy—“Oh, baby, the way you extend my telescope and polish my lens smooth and wet with Gin/Pluto may not be a planet but Uranus—”

  ME: Stop! Okay, I’ll go!

  D: Are you completely red with shame?

  ME: No!

  D: Pants on fire! Wear your hair down and tousled because it’s sexier.

  Called Nelson and asked where he went to college. He got his DDS from UCSF—score! Invited him to come with me tonight. He agreed to meet me in the lobby of the hotel near Times Square so we could strategize before going up to the penthouse bar. Yay! I told him not to wear any “provocative” shirts.

  6:45 P.M.

  Nelson waited for me at a table in an alcove off the lobby. He was sipping a drink through a straw. When I came in, he smiled and half-stood, bumping the table a bit.

  “Want a ginger ale? It doesn’t stain your teeth, but it’s always best to drink through straws.”

  He wore a pale blue shirt, navy blazer, and khaki slacks. I noticed the bulky gold class ring on his neat hands, and I said, “You look nice. I should have worn some UCLA thing, I guess, but all I have is workout gear.”

  “I think it will be okay. It’s different for girls. Short guys have to do more to look acceptable.” He rubbed his head nervously and mussed his hair.

  I reached over and smoothed it for him. “Nelson, just smile. You have a great smile.”

  “You, too. Do we have a strategy besides smiling?”

  “I think we’ll have to take turns being wingmen. I don’t really know how to do it.”

  “Meeting girls makes me feel as if I’m shopping for a vintage car,” he said. “The dealers are always so slick, and I walk away because I’m intimidated. I thought I’d learn something from Numinous’s class, but he treats everything like a hostile takeover. I’m more interested in an amicable transaction?”

  A lightbulb went off in my head. “Nelson, that’s exactly it! What if we approached meeting people like a romantic mediation? I always advise my clients, ‘When you go into a negotiation, be the first one to offer a number and psychologically set a value on the transaction. This will establish a starting point that favors you.’ ”

  Nelson seemed interested and asked how that would work, and I told him, “We have to each present the other as valuable, worthwhile dates in clear, direct statements, and we need to repeat that information. It’s a tactic for an item that is otherwise difficult to appraise. We establish an association with ‘amazing date material’ and that will stay in their minds.”

  “So I could say, this is Jennifer Walters, who graduated summa cum laude from UCLA, has practiced superhuman law with the universe’s preeminent law firm, ran varsity cross-country track, et cetera. It’s in your public bio. I hope that’s not too stalkery.”

  I felt bad that I hadn’t looked him up. “No, it’s normal. What do you want me to say about you?”

  His hand went to his head again, scrubbing at his hair. “I was the consultant for a cannibal movie once? To get the bite marks accurately?”

  It took me ten minutes to pry more information out of him. I couldn’t think of any way to tell him not to phrase everything as a question.

  I saw some attractive career types heading toward the elevators. “I guess it’s time,” I said, and smoothed down his hair again. “We’re going to do great!”

  Nelson and I took the elevator upstairs to the penthouse bar. A bleached blonde at the reception table flipped back her hair and said, “Hi, I’m Wendy,” I swear to God! I wished I could ask her to repeat it so I could sneak a video for Dahlia.

  We took our name tags with our academic credentials listed in the lower left corner, and we looked nervously around the room.

  “Let’s get a drink and do reconnaissance,” Nelson whispered.

  “Okay,” I said, but we stopped in our tracks when the event organizer tapped a mic and announced that it was time for speed introductions.

  Nelson looked as if he’d been tossed out of a lifeboat when I was herded with the other girls to a long table with numbered plastic bags and handed four stickers.

  The organizer said, “This is our lightning round and our sexy single girls have five minutes to sniff each T-shirt and mark the four—and four only—that get their engine revving. Happy sniffing!”

  I frantically turned to the pretty brunette beside me. “What are we supposed to do? I didn’t see anything on the website about T-shirts.”

  “It was announced last week. Every guy slept in a T-shirt for three nights. If we’re attracted to their pheromones, it’s a good indication that we’ll like them,” she said. “That’s the theory, at least, but I predict some stinkiness and lots of cheating.”

  The organizer announced, “At the end of the lightning round, our sexy single girls will have five-minute chats with each of their four favorite musky males!” Which made me want to run out of the room, but I couldn’t because the hostess said, “The clock starts NOW!” and I got swept up in the rush to the T-shirts.

  It was outside my comfort zone, so I gathered my nerve and shuffled into the sniffing line. Shirt #1: pizza and sour sweat. Shirt #2: Bengay muscle rub. Shirt #3: fabric softener. Shirt #4: faint aftershave and something nice. Shirt #5 and #6: Calvin Klein Eternity for Women, which I guessed meant that two of these guys were sleeping with the same woman. Shirt #7: ma
rijuana and chocolate, yum. Etc.

  I put stickers on the least offensive ones, and then I caught sight of Nelson, looking uneasy in a corner.

  The organizer rang a bell and said, “Sexy single girls, sit at the table indicated by the number on your name tag, and we’ll start round two so you can meet your musky hunky selections!”

  She really said that. I was trying to text Dahlia under the table, but my first choice came along, the guy whose shirt smelled of fabric softener and something nice, which was probably his skin.

  His was about six-two, and trim and muscled under a narrow-fitting suit. He was nice-looking, with brown hair and gray eyes, and I thought that maybe there was something to this matchmaking.

  We smiled, and he talked right away saying, “Hi, Jen, I’m Ryan. Thanks for picking my shirt. I’m a veterinarian and a vegetarian, basically v-things.”

  “I’m an attorney and a—”

  “Attractive,” he said. “Very. What kind of law do you practice?”

  I hated sounding as if I was bragging, but this was part of the romantic arbitration. “I’m a specialist in superhuman law, and now I’m working on a complex biotech, intellectual property, and fraud case, so I really have to get up early to make it to the gym.”

  “Wow! So you know superheroes?” he said.

  “And supervillians.”

  “What’s your favorite workout?”

  “I’ve been training in martial arts for a while,” I said with a smile.

  “Really? I’m on a volleyball team, indoors in the winter and beach volleyball in the summer, and I run daily with my Ridgebacks.”

  “I want to get a dog,” I said, and I was thinking that Ryan was a really nice guy when the bell rang again.

  He was my favorite of my four best-smellers, but the most popular smelling guy in the room was the pot-and-chocolate T-shirt dude, who was tubby and bearded. Women were clustered around him, trying to edge one another out.