“Lying?” Smash was indignant. “I’m lying about fucking being blind?”
“Maybe. The doctors say—”
“Fuck the doctors!”
“Ssh!”
“I can’t see, okay?”
“Then you think…. You can imagine how bad it looks, right? And, what you’re picturing probably ain’t even as bad as it is.”
“Fine, Red. Yeah. You want the truth? I’m a bastard. A shit! A rotten son of a bitch. I don’t wanna fall in love with you because maybe, once I see you, your face will be more than I can take.” He reached up and took that face in his hands. “Are ya happy? Is that what you wanted to hear? Does it make you feel better to make us both feel like shit?”
“Whatever.” Bulldog twisted his head out of Smash’s hold and then climbed off the big jerk. “Blast took off,” he said. “We got work to do.”
THE superstars of the evening began to arrive. Blast felt all atwitter, knowing weeks of planning were about to come to fruition. The cherry on her sundae, after making Oscar go boom, would be revealing legendary Smash’s true identity as Jacob Cannon, and showing the world that they were both, in fact, sick and twisted homosexuals.
She had turned the tables on the “Gotcha” journalist, bribing one of his fuckmates. If Damien Wayne, son of Batman, didn’t want people to know he was the new Robin, he shouldn’t let comic book writers write about him. Good old Damien had filmed himself fucking Smash. While they were careful to protect their health with a condom, neither worried about protecting his identity—both went bare faced, as usual. Once Isabella Burr got her nasty little hands on the DVD, she couldn’t wait to make it public. She had put up a billboard, right across from the Oscars venue. A big-as-the-state-of-Rhode-Island screen grab of Wayne wood up Cannon corn-hole would be revealed just before chaos erupted.
It would be interesting to see which story garnered more press—hundreds of movie stars blown to oblivion, or the revelation that missing news anchor Jacob Cannon was alive and well as butt-bandit superhero Smash.
SMASH pressed his side against the Kodak Theatre. “You still don’t see her?” he whispered.
Blast had disappeared.
Smash pressed his front against Bulldog; his thick dick fit nicely in the small of the shorter one’s back. “Sorry,” he said. “You were quiet. I just needed to make sure you hadn’t abandoned me.”
“I’d never do that,” the sidekick vowed.
“I know. I’m insecure.”
“No kidding.” There was no irony in Bulldog’s voice.
“I’m sorry, I….”
“Shut up!”
“There’s no need to be rude.”
“Quiet!” Bulldog took a sniff. “I smell… perfume.” He looked around the corner to match the familiar scent to a woman. There was no Blast, but there was Isabella Burr. “What are the odds…?”
“What?”
“Why would Isabella Burr be at the Oscars?”
“I dunno. Disgraced politicos can still pull strings. Get in places. Celebrity is funny that way.”
“What if there’s more to it than that? She was smart enough to change her clothes; what if she wasn’t smart enough to change her cologne?”
“What are you talking about? Who?” Something dawned on him. “Wait! Blast! Isabella Burr! Do they smell the same?”
“They do.”
“She said something to me once—about Jacob, and about me, Smash…. Anyway, it didn’t register at the time, but now that I think about it, I think she knows I’m me.”
Before he could finish the over-excited and, unfortunately, overly loud, jumbled explanation, Isabella Burr had snuck up behind them. She gave Smash a good whack with her lead-weight evening purse.
What the hell do women carry in those things?
The big lug sank like a deflating dick.
The evil tea bagger grabbed the short superhero, who, incidentally, hadn’t minded a good teabag with Smash in Monterey’s pool. “Going up,” she said.
Going up, Bulldog chuckled inside.
With strength, agility, and a whole lotta grunting reminiscent of King Kong, manly Burr, in pink Chanel, started scaling the Kodak Theatre’s façade with Bulldog, no longer chuckling, in her grasp.
“You know,” Bulldog said. “You got skill. Why not use it for good instead of evil? Oh.” He smacked his forehead. “Silly me. I forgot you’re Republican.”
“That’s a stereotype,” Burr balked. “Like saying all superheroes are gay.”
“That one’s kinda true.”
The crowd had rushed inside because of the inclement weather. Smash was left unconscious on the pavement behind the building. The man he had developed true feelings for, whether he’d admit them or not, was in danger of losing his life.
“What are you gonna do to me?”
“Simple. I bet you don’t fly, right?” She waited for an answer.
None came.
“No cape, no flight. But tonight, we’re gonna see if you can. This building isn’t very tall, but it is high enough that if I shove you off…. Splat!”
Bulldog struggled in her arms.
“I’m stronger than I look, shorty. Clubbing seals from a blimp does wonders for one’s upper body. You’ll never get away.”
“Fine!” Bulldog yelled defiantly. “You’re gonna dwarf toss me, just do it now!”
“Well, that’s no fun,” Izzie twanged. “I say we wait until good ol’ Jacob Smash wakes up from his little nap. Watching him watch his new lover fall to his death, that’ll be almost as much fun as throwing acid in his face. He’s a shallow little faggot, you know?”
“He is not.”
“No? You think he’d be with you if you weren’t such a pretty boy?”
“I’m not!”
“Please. False modesty is not going to do you any good at this point. Your fate, heaven—or more likely hell—has already been decided.”
“You better hope there is no hell.”
“All Republicans go to heaven.”
“You wish, you drowned rat fink!”
Running mascara had her looking like a withered, wrinkled zebra. Her bouffant had deflated like an “F”-worthy Home Ec student’s soufflé. Her wet gown revealed rolls of fat from eating too many moose burgers, and her soaked bra did little to hold up her droopy, barely B boobs.
Bulldog, on the other hand, looked even hotter cold and wet. “And why are you lying to me?” he asked. “About my face? It’s hideous.”
“Wow. I know you homos come in two forms—‘arrogant’ and ‘no self-esteem’—but for Christ’s sake, have you looked at yourself lately?”
“No, I actually try not to.”
He had managed to avoid mirrors most of his life, even looking down at his feet every time he passed a shiny object. Poor Bulldog had no desire to see his face—not before he saved little Boots, and certainly not after, when it had only gotten worse.
Burr pulled a compact from her purse. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she huffed. She shoved it in front of his face. “Look at yourself!”
Before he could take a gander, “Bulldog!” Smash shouted up from below.
Caught off guard, Blast loosened her grip. Bulldog gave her an elbow to the ribs. He rushed toward the edge of the building. “Hey!” he called out. “Fly up and get me!”
Just then, Jack Monterey appeared, scaling his way down a rope that dangled from a chopper.
Show off.
“Smash!” He ran to Jacob’s side. “Blast planted a bomb! The cops tagged one of her minions. He squealed like a pig at an all-male porcine orgy. It’s set to go off when they do the song for the dead. She wants to wipe out the whole theater! Make next year’s song a whole CD.”
“Holy shit!”
“Don’t worry about the stars, though,” His Cheesiness said. “Just get yourself to Bulldog. We’ll evacuate the acting folk calmly.”
Even as he said it, stars started pouring out. Hollywood’s onscreen superheroes led the way, not t
o help, but to save their own asses. Women and children first, my ass! Mr. Mission Impossible literally stepped on poor Betty White to get outside first.
“I’m coming, Bulldog!”
Smash took a step. He jumped.
Bam!
He smacked, head-first, into the side of the awards venue, loosening a section of brick and mortar.
“Fuck!”
Though Bulldog hollered from the roof—“To the left! To the left!”—as good as he was at directing ejaculating cocks, the noise of screaming Tinsel Town elite drowned him out.
“I’m coming, Bulldog!” Smash tried again. He took flight—banging into people, shrubbery, and high-profile satellite trucks.
Finally, he was up, up and away—until that is….
Smash!
He went through a huge, plate-glass window.
The superhero fell. He touched a finger to the warm, wet trickle running down his cheek. “My face,” he whispered as he crawled out onto the sidewalk, through a pile of shards, determined to get back to his partner.
“You’re beautiful,” he heard from up above.
Smash stumbled to his feet. “I’m coming for you,” he said.
“What about me?” Isabella teased. “Come get me.” Despite her “I Am Not a Witch Either” campaign slogan, she cackled like someone who raised flying monkeys, as she grabbed Bulldog by the collar of his clingy copper shirt. She pushed him toward the edge of the roof. “It’s too late for him,” and with another evil laugh, shoved the diminutive sidekick off the ledge.
“Bulldog! I love you!” Smash cried.
He shot straight up from the ground, struggling to aim for the right direction, to save the man who had finally captured his heart. Once horizontal, he reached out his arms, searching the shadows that suddenly appeared. “My eyes!” He struggled to make out the shape of a hottie who looked like a bulldog. “Bully, I can see!”
His excitement was short-lived. Tragedy took over. It all happened in seconds. The fall, the rescue attempt, Smash regaining his sight. Unfortunately, the timing was off. Smash missed the catch by mere inches and Bulldog sailed past, plummeting toward asphalt and cement.
“No!” Jacob screeched.
“He’s gone,” Isabella Burr Blast said with triumph.
Smash rocketed to the roof. “I’ll kill you, you contemptuous bitch!”
“Big words, Mr. Newsman.”
“Give yourself up.”
“No way.”
“They’ve defused your bomb.”
“Would have been like a Fourth of July fizzler in comparison to seeing you cry.”
Smash touched his cheek. The warm liquid there now wasn’t blood. “You’ll rot in hell!”
He charged her. Things were still fuzzy, all in black and white, but he could make out her form, and he could smell her rank, sickening smell. He was going to grab the strap-on strappin’-on skank by her throat and throw her off the fucking roof. Whatever happened afterward, he didn’t even care.
“Smash!”
He turned.
It was Bulldog!
“I’m okay.” He was cradled in Jack Monterey’s capable arms.
“They didn’t give me my job for nothing,” the big cheese smirked. “I can still fly when I gotta.”
“Dammit!” Blast barked.
Smash met her evil gaze. “It’s over.” He took a step toward her.
“Not quite.”
She took a deep breath and blew, turning a puddle on the roof into a patch of ice. Smash went down, flat on his super-firm, superhero ass.
He struggled upright. “You think that’s gonna do me in?”
“No.” She pulled a remote from her clutch. “But this will.” She pointed it at the electronic billboard just as Smash rushed her. The huge display turned over to the incriminating sex pic of Jacob/Smash and young Robin screwing, stopping the bottom guy in his tracks.
“You rotten bitch!”
He took off at the speed of light, crashing through a small section of the panel display, destroying a corner big enough to obscure the image of his face and do some damage to his real one. No one would know who the mystery anal fuckers were. His secret was safe, for now. More importantly, so was his lover.
THEY were back in the infirmary, half of Smash’s face once again wrapped in sterile strips. He opened his eyes.
“Hey.”
“Bulldog.”
“At least you don’t have amnesia.”
“I remember I love you. The rest is a little fuzzy.”
“Blast got away. And you hit that electronic billboard kinda hard.”
“Occupational hazard.” Smash reached up and touched his face. “Ow.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“You are.”
“You can see me.”
“All four feet of you.”
Bulldog laughed. “I’m five-seven, okay?”
“As if. You’re beautiful.”
“You said that already.”
“It bears repeating.” Smash took Bulldog’s perfect face in both large hands and brought it close to his full, suckable lips. “I want to kiss you. Wait.” He paused. “What’s your real name?”
Bulldog’s eyes got moist. “Would you believe I never had one?”
“Aww.” Smash raised Bulldog’s chin with two fingers, meeting green with his baby-blues. “You’re a shitty liar.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “Is it… Pennsylvania?”
Bulldog grinned too. “No. I wouldn’t mind Pennsylvania. I look like a leprechaun and my name is Vinnie DeLango.”
Smash made an “ick” face. “Oh. Sorry.” He immediately regretted it. “It’s a nice name.”
“You’re a shitty liar too.”
They kissed.
“Hey,” Vinnie asked. “Why, all the sudden, did you love me?”
“I’ve loved you all along.”
“Me too. But why did you suddenly declare it?”
“I was scared.”
“Okay. More to the point, I guess, why did you suddenly get your eyesight back?”
“Because I needed it to save you. To try.”
“I get that too, in a convenient, romanticized, cliché kinda way. But the change of heart…? Is it because you saw my face was okay?”
“It’s better than okay.”
“I know. I finally saw it myself. I’m not… a monster anymore.”
“You never were.”
“You don’t know. You never saw me before the League of Protection docs fixed it.”
“I didn’t see you, but I knew you—like Sam knew Pennsylvania. How they felt about each other was more important than how either one of them looked.”
“Then why were you fake-blind in the first place?”
“Because I am a shitty liar, I think.”
“I don’t….”
“I don’t get it either. Maybe I needed something to make me vulnerable, a reason to be near you. Being blind is fucking scary, dude.”
“I can only imagine.”
“I’m so sorry.” A tear ran down Smash’s battered face, the side left exposed.
“It’s not your fault. You couldn’t control it.” Bulldog wiped the tear away.
“No. For what I said—about not wanting to be with you because of your face.” More tears came. They came hard. He grabbed Bulldog’s hair in his fists. “I wanted to make you hate me. I couldn’t let you fall in love with me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m an asshole.”
“That’s part of your charm.”
Smash kissed Bulldog’s forehead. Then he pressed his to it. “I was afraid you’d only stay with me as long as I was pitiful—needy. There was always the possibility you’d ditch me as soon as I could see.”
“Never.”
Bulldog touched Smash’s bandages.
“I’m not gonna fix it,” Smash said.
“Huh?”
“In case being an asshole is tied to how I look? What if the old me comes back, wi
th my old face and sight?”
“I kinda think that’s silly.”
“Maybe. But you had obstacles, all your life, and you turned out nice. I got everything, always, that I ever wanted in life, and look how I am.”
“Was.”
“I needed to change.”
“Maybe we both needed the same thing, someone who loved us.”
SMASH wanted the Italian leprechaun naked. He had stopped taking eyesight for granted and wanted to see the little ginger stud and his orange pubic hair in all its glory.
For Bulldog, the whole superhero thing was not yet old-hat. He wanted Jacob in full Smash regalia, silky cape and all.
He laid his head between Jacob’s pecs, right on the blue “S” with the jagged lines. He fingered Smash’s hard nip through the fabric, then went at it with his tongue. He was up on his knees, resting on man-of-steel quads. Smash took the opportunity to massage and pull apart Bulldog’s glutes.
“So, listen.” Smash cocked his head. “Sam got Pennsylvania to take it up the hole. What are my chances?”
Bulldog laughed. “I never actually wrote that.” He offered Smash a quick peck.
“You call that a kiss?”
“I figured, less story, more fucking.”
Smash wrestled Vinnie onto his back. He went below the belt the kid wasn’t wearing—way below, working Italian/Irish toes with a lot of spit and tongue. “It’s all your fault I suddenly have a thing for feet!”
Within a few minutes, ten inches of hero hardness, trapped too long in stretchy burgundy, had to be set free.
“I still can’t believe they coordinated our outfits,” Smash complained.
“I like it.” Bulldog said as he stripped Jacob down. “They look even better next to each other on the floor.” He shoved him hard, back onto the bed. He squatted over him, letting Smash go up on him to prepare his eager hole.
Smash was gentle. He was respectful. Bulldog’s torso and his legs were badly scarred in spots.
“I’m sorry.” Bulldog chewed his lip. “There’s no hair there. The doctors that did my face, maybe, they said, they can fix up the rest of me, but I’ll never grow hair.”
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