by Baron Sord
…my heart! Something wrong with my heart! It’s not—!
…she ran right out in front of me! I couldn’t stop in time! I didn’t mean to—!
…choking? Oh my God! Somebody help! My baby is choking! His face is blue! Somebody please help! Please!
It broke my heart knowing I couldn’t drop everything at work and go help. Believe me, I saved countless lives at night. So many, in fact, I had literally lost count. But during the day?
During the day, I had bills to pay.
THE BANK BREAKER had broken out of the pen and had struck again.
End result for me?
$0.00
My only option was to suck it up at YouDoIt.
I had no doubt my computer monitor in my cubicle was getting sick of watching my constant scowl when I was at my desk. When I wasn’t, Clifton and Rene frequently asked me who had died. Sanjay asked if I was happy with everything at work. I lied and smiled and said, why wouldn’t I be?
I was getting uncomfortably good at lying.
As for the people I could not help during my work day, I tried to remind myself people had been dying and crying long before I was born, and would continue to suffer long after I was dead. Assuming I could die. My super powers showed no signs of going away. That was a plus.
Week nights, I went out alone while Arnold slept at home. He could no longer handle the insane hours. Although I was tired daily, I didn’t feel run down. I made up for it by napping in Arnold’s Prius between distress calls (the next one always shocked me awake), or while sleeping at my desk in my YouDoIt cubicle whenever I could, which was at least an hour or two daily. Thankfully, my workload was never so bad that I couldn’t sneak in a few naps while sitting up.
And thankfully, whenever I started snoring, Clifton or Rene would come over and nudge me because I had done the same for them countless times in the past.
Weekends, I slept hard during the days, and at night, Arnold backed my play every step of the way.
Most days, I found myself wondering what Lady Liberty was doing. Was she out helping innocent citizens like I was? Or was she at Flashbacks stripping for a living? Or did she quit stripping because of all the money she had made selling Lady Liberty #1 at the Con?
I didn’t know, but I did know where Flashbacks was.
In the past month, I had driven past it twenty times or more. Not that I had any reason to. But come on. I was curious.
Why had she blown me off?
I didn’t know.
No matter how badly I had wanted to walk inside Flashbacks and say hello, I never did. Out of respect for her and Jeff Strickland. He still hadn’t sent me those two script pages of S&M to pencil that he’d promised because I had never emailed him. It was for the best. I no longer had any time for drawing.
I was okay with that.
Being a real superhero and saving lives fulfilled me in a way that drawing them never had. But it could be a lonely business, especially when Arnold was home sleeping and I was out alone fighting the good fight.
I would’ve loved to talk to Lady Liberty about it. Maybe even have her along with me on distress calls when Arnold was sleeping at home.
Heck, I’d be happy to just talk to her for five minutes once in a while. I wouldn’t feel compelled to lie to her like I did with everyone else, women in particular. With Lady Liberty, I could talk freely about my powers and what I had done in the name of saving lives. If she wanted to share, I was happy to listen. Her secrets would be safe with me, and I liked to think mine would be safe with her.
Yeah, I felt like I could tell her anything.
No, not quite anything.
After the way she’d reacted to me fighting Rhino, Pencil Kicker, and Blackjack in that downtown alley on the day we’d gotten our powers, it was probably best I not tell her about killing Ice Statue Sully or Karambit Kayhill or Miguel or Javier. I suspected she wouldn’t approve. But I could tell her everything else and she would understand. She would be able to relate.
Hopefully I’d catch up with her at another comic convention in the near future. These days, between San Diego, Orange County, and Los Angeles, southern California seemed to have one every month.
I’d see her soon, I was sure of it.
If I really wanted, I could probably see her tonight.
All I had to do was walk into Flashbacks.
—: Chapter 41 :—
“Oh fuck, fuck yeah, do that. Keep doing that. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh, yeah. Fuck. Fuck yeah. Fuck. Fuuuuuuck.” The frequent fuck utterer was the man to whom Kristy was giving a lap dance inside Flashbacks.
After four songs, he would not stop grunting the word fuck.
They were in a private booth in back. There was just enough room in the little booth for the comfy leather chair, the fuck utterer, and the curtain closed behind both of them to give them the suggestion of privacy.
“Fuck me, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” the utterer grunted gleefully.
Kristy wasn’t fucking anything. She was fully dressed. In a skimpy bikini and stripper heels. But she was climbing all over the fully clothed utterer of fucks. It’s what you did when giving a lap dance.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” the fuck utterer grunted.
Kristy stopped and cringed, “Can you just…”
“Just what?” the utterer gasped.
“Sorry… your talking… it’s distracting. I can give you a better dance if I’m not distracted.”
“Oh, sure,” he smiled. “You do you and I’ll do me, but quiet, while you do me,” he chuckled.
“Thank you,” Kristy smiled half-heartedly and resumed sliding and grinding on top of the utterer.
He thought, Fuck, fuck yeah. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fuck me, baby! Fucking fuck the fuck outta me! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
Needless to say, lap dances were not Kristy’s favorite.
But they paid better than stage dancing. Way better.
In fact, the men had been lining up all night.
The other girls were getting jealous.
Kristy wouldn’t’ve noticed because she was so busy lap-dancing, like an effing revolving door of lap dancing, but Sierra’d kept reminding her how good a night Kristy was having. Jealously reminding her.
Now, the current song came to an end and Kristy slid off the utterer. “You want me for another song?”
“Fuck, I’m outta cash.”
Kristy slowly stood up and pulled the curtain open. Waited outside the booth, which was in a row of a dozen other curtained booths in a hallway.
The utterer came out and paid her.
“Thank you,” Kristy smiled. “I really enjoyed that,” she lied convincingly. “Come back next week, okay?” When you have more money, she thought but would never ever say. It was her job.
“You got it,” the utterer grinned from ear to ear.
Kristy took him by the hand and led him out of the back to the main floor where the crowds were cheering the dancers going at it on the stages. She said goodbye to the utterer while counting the money in her head.
The utterer had paid her $100 for five songs. 20 bucks a song. Songs were two minutes long. Half the money went to the club. Kristy kept the other half, but she had to pay out a third in tips to the bouncers, DJ, doormen, the actual waitresses, the ticket girl out front, the cooks, yadda, yadda, yadda. It still came out to $200 an hour for Kristy, if she did nothing but back-to-back lap dances. In reality, she didn’t make nearly that much. Even if she did like giving lap dances, which she really really didn’t, she’d only average about $100 an hour on peak nights like Fridays and Saturdays.
The most ambitious girls at the club rarely made more than $100,000 a year from just Flashbacks, and that was rare. There were too many girls working the club for most of them to make even close to that on a regular basis, and Kristy certainly didn’t. No way. Not even close. Anyway, that was why Flashbacks was so popular a club. Because so many girls. Good for the customers, good for the owners, bad for the working girls.
Kristy
sighed.
She couldn’t complain.
She only had to work a few nights a week, and the rest of the time went to her comic.
Another customer in a hoodie rushed over, “Can I getta lap dance? Please? I’ve been waiting all night for you.”
“Um…” Kristy couldn’t get over how desperate the guys were all of a sudden. She did get plenty of attention here at Flashbacks, always had, and more than most girls, but it’d never been like this. Ever since getting her powers, it seemed like the lap dances were literally nonstop. Kristy couldn’t lap dance nonstop, not even with super-powers. It wasn’t the physical effort. It was the mental. Compartmentalizing was hard work. She sighed, “You know, I actually need to take a break.”
“Oh,” Hoodie Customer said, disappointed.
“Mercedes can dance for you,” Kristy said, waving Sierra over as she walked by. Sierra’s name at work was Mercedes.
“I was hoping…” Hoodie trailed off.
Sierra saw Kristy, smiled, and joined her and Hoodie.
Kristy said, “My friend here wants a lap dance, Mercedes. Can you give him one while I take a quick break?”
“I’d love to,” Sierra purred, sliding her arms around Hoodie’s elbow.
Hoodie was still staring at Kristy.
Sierra gave Kristy an annoyed look that said, What is with you tonight? If you’re gonna call me over to give me a guy, give him to me!
Turned out those were Sierra’s literal thoughts, because super-powers. They were somewhat hard to hear over the loud music, but standing this close, Kristy could read just about anyone’s thoughts here in the club, despite the noise level and competing thoughts from everyone else.
Kristy smiled at Hoodie, placed a gentle finger on his chin, and turned his face to Sierra.
When Hoodie’s eyes landed on Sierra’s bikini covered body, it seemed to break whatever weird spell Kristy had over him. He thought, Oh, shit! Look at that rack!
Sierra did have nice boobs. She’d paid good money for them.
Hoodie thought, I can almost see her pussy coming out of her thong!
Sierra did wear the skimpiest of bikinis.
Kristy’s wasn’t nearly so revealing.
“Wanna private dance?” Sierra asked Hoodie.
“Fuck yeah,” Hoodie laughed without looking back.
“Right this way,” Sierra said, and led him away.
Kristy went into the dressing room where the other girls were gabbing and giggling in front of the makeup mirrors and the lights. Total hen house.
Kristy needed quiet.
She went into one of the bathrooms to pee. Instead of one big bathroom with ten stalls, it was two little individual ones side by side. Obviously, the men who’d designed the club hadn’t thought that maybe three dozen girls needed more than two effing toilets. Whatever.
The nice thing about the little b-room p-rooms was they were actually private, the only privacy you could get in a place where you literally let everything hang out for everyone to see.
Kristy closed the door and sat down on the toilet.
Could still hear bass bumping through the walls.
She was used to it.
The nice thing about the noise and the random rabid thoughts from the hungry men?
They seemed to block out Disaster Vision. Like a thick cocoon of mental intensity that shielded her from real trouble in the real world. If it wasn’t for that, Kristy couldn’t’ve done her job here at the club. Disaster Vision was too vivid otherwise. Here, the only mental images she got were the onslaught of man fantasies.
There were worse things.
Like people getting shot to death at a gospel church.
Every time Kristy thought about that, she wanted to cry.
She couldn’t tell anyone about it. No way! How did you tell someone like Sierra or whoever that you’d had a Disaster Vision of a drive-by shooting, but you couldn’t stop it because a stupid SUV made you total your dad’s Ninja?
It was crazy.
Two towns over from K-Cray.
Kristy couldn’t tell anybody about Disaster Vision or super-powers.
Or killing Brock.
She cringed at thoughts of him falling down that canyon and bouncing.
Bouncing.
Put it right out of her mind and sighed.
This superheroine thing was a lonely business, wasn’t it?
Wait, what if there was someone she could talk to?
Other than Mischief, Kristy thought with a grin. Missy Kitty knew all Kristy’s secrets.
She meant a human person.
One in particular.
Doug Moore.
He’d understand.
He’d totally understand.
She didn’t know what he’d been up to since getting his powers, but he was a good guy. She could tell. He’d helped her save those people at the convention without a second thought. He’d understand what she was going through, even if only a little.
Except the part about Brock.
Kristy groaned to herself.
Doug’d probably hate her for killing Brock. Doug seemed like such a by-the-book kind of guy. He wouldn’t understand sometimes things happened out of your control.
Beating guys up in an alley like Doug had that first day was one thing. Kristy doubted he’d done anything that bad since.
Killing your ex-boyfriend, even if he was a stalker asshole?
Doug’d never understand that.
He was too nice to ever kill anybody.
That was why she liked him so much.
Wow.
Just, wow.
She did like him, didn’t she?
If she did, she’d made a huge mistake blowing him off the day they’d met.
You know what? It wasn’t his stupid muscles that’d turned her off to him that day.
It was stupid K-Cray.
K-Cray’s sex-crazed reaction to Super Doug’d turned Kristy off to him.
But you couldn’t judge a man only by his muscles!
Because Brock!
Every woman knew that!
You judged a man by his character!
Kristy sighed.
She’d misjudged Doug’s character.
Badly.
Oh well.
Too late now.
Next!
She’d have to look elsewhere for a suitable boyfriend.
It was probably for the best.
Doug needed a non-murderess girlfriend.
“Hurry up in there!” one of the girls pounded on the bathroom door. “I have to shit so bad I can smell it!”
Kristy grimaced and finished her business.
If men only knew… they’d never ever come to Flashbacks for lap dances.
Because seriously, who wanted a shit-ass on your lap?
Kristy smirked.
Most men probably thought dancers didn’t even poop.
Because they didn’t, obvi.
They poofed rose petals!
Kristy giggled to herself as she washed up and went out.
—: Chapter 42 :—
It was the last Thursday night in August and I was driving past Flashbacks at this very moment. I sighed to myself like I did every time I drove past. It pained me to think Lady Liberty was most likely right under my nose and yet completely out of reach.
Oh well.
I had promised to never bother her at work. I intended to keep that promise. I didn’t stop to go in. I desperately wanted to, but I didn’t.
At the next stoplight, I glanced at the dashboard clock.
After midnight.
Time to go home because I had to work in the morning. Turned out, if I didn’t get at least a few hours sleep every night, I was worthless at work and on distress calls. Tonight I’d been running from one to the next for 5 hours already.
…Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot! Please, man! Please!
I sighed.
Another distress call.
It sounded distant — both g
eographically and temporally — and therefore garbled and echoey, but obviously involved guns. I had to deal with it. No shirking because I was tired.
Whenever guns were involved, I liked having Arnold around to watch my back. He had proved himself time and again. Nobody could talk a crazed gunman down better than him. His presence was worth twice his weight in gold, which, despite the weight he’d lost recently, was close to $8 million at current market prices. No, make that a hundred times.
I couldn’t do this job without Arnold backing me up in countless ways.
I parked my rented Ford Fusion Hybrid on a side street and called him. Yes, I had finally managed to get the insurance taken care of for my totaled Aveo. The company had cut me a meager check. It wasn’t much because of the Aveo’s age. I hadn’t bothered to go car shopping yet for obvious reasons. Namely money, or lack thereof, courtesy of THE BANK BREAKER, of course. Even in prison, his bank-breaking powers held sway over my accounts.
Despite my quickly dwindling cash reserves, I had rented this Ford so I wouldn’t have to borrow Arnold’s Prius every single day. He needed it to get to SPAWAR without having to hassle with my insanely unpredictable superhero schedule. I’d already made Arnold late at least a half-dozen times in recent weeks, and his boss Gabe had given him plenty of shit about it, which Arnold did not deserve.
Now, Arnold answered sleepily, “Yeah?”
“You ready for some fun?”
“The fun kind of fun?” he said it with tired amusement.
“The funnest. Bring your pads.” Pads was code for his bulletproof SAFEMAX vest. I wouldn’t let him come out on a distress call without it.
“Yeah, yeah,” Arnold said. “Gimme fifteen minutes. I have to take a massive dump.”
I chortled, “Don’t fall in. See you in fifteen.”
Lately, we had been talking in code on the phone in case somebody was surveilling us. Yes, I was getting paranoid. I was sure it happened to every four-time murderer.
Logic said it was only a matter of time until the cops started tracking me, or videos of me without my mask showed up on YouTube or YourView — which was iSearch’s answer to YouTube. Yeah, there was a huge trademark case between Google and iSearch dragging through the courts over the name.
At any rate, if a clear picture of my face ever went online and went viral, it wouldn’t take long for the SDPD, Max Garrison, and a very disappointed Justine Escala to come knocking on the gates at Arnold’s house, or the doors at YouDoIt in Serra Mesa, with an arrest warrant.