Six Superhero Stories

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  "Why?" Mammon grins. "What're you gonna do if I don't?"

  *****

  I proceed to kick thirteen asses at once using my gimmick. My power.

  One minute, I'm in range of a piledriver punch, heading straight for my face. The next minute, I'm three feet shorter, and the punch flashes past over my head.

  One minute, a goon has me in a half-nelson, dead to rights, while another goon aims a kick at my gut. The next minute, I'm little again, sliding out of the half-nelson and dropping fast as one goon's kick lands hard in the other goon's belly.

  I shrink from the paths of ball bats and bullets and knives, then grow to my full six feet five and knock down bad guys like ducks at a carnival shooting gallery.

  And in the end, when everyone's down and Mammon's the only villain still conscious, I rub it in. I interrogate him in my smaller form, the three-foot-five version. The little boy I become when I use my powers. My seven-year-old self, the other half of my super-hero name, Man-Child.

  I want Mammon to remember who held the knife at his throat at this moment.

  "Now tell me." I say it in the high-pitched voice of a seven-year-old boy. "What do you know about the porn?"

  *****

  One clue. One name. That's all Mammon gives me. But it's enough.

  I drive through the darkness in my '74 Dodge Dart...my home, in other words. If not for the Dart, I'd be sleeping on the street.

  Have I mentioned how the recession's been kicking my ass lately? Rewards for good deeds and rounding up wanted criminals have gotten fewer and farther between. On top of that, I lost my day job as a contract custodian. And then my wife, Sheba, left me...though maybe that wasn't such a surprise.

  Feels like I'm rolling downhill fast these days. Like the darkness that haunts me is gaining ground. The darkness that drives me to do what I'm doing, whatever the cost.

  Because I know what it's like to be forced to do something against your will. To have someone else violate you when you're small and defenseless. To have someone bigger than you abuse you for sexual purposes.

  Believe me, I know exactly what that's like. I've been there, I can never forget it. And I know that sometimes, you have to ask yourself one question.

  If I don't go out and find justice, who else is going to do it?

  *****

  No one but me.

  I'm the only one standing on the sidewalk in front of the Lucky Penny Laundromat at three in the morning. But the lights are bright inside, and I know he's here.

  Stigmata always has a lot of laundry to do, what with the bloody wounds of Christ constantly popping up on his hands, feet, and side. The guy practically lives here, even fences stolen loot and sells weed here.

  I don't see him, but I can feel his eyes on me as I walk through the door. The baking desert heat gives way to air-conditioned coolness and the smell of detergent and bleach.

  I take three steps and stop by the first row of washing machines. "Stig? I've got a paying job for you." Lying's the only possible way to avoid a problem here. Stigmata's paranoid, delusional, and a first class hater of costumed avengers.

  The only sound in the room is the rolling hum of a dryer. The clacking of buttons against the dryer's spinning metal drum.

  "Come on, Stig." I take two more steps. "Let's talk, man. Just talk."

  Next thing I know, a heavy pair of wet blue jeans whacks me in the head. Takes me totally by surprise, and I turn.

  At which point, scrawny Stigmata leaps at me from behind a washing machine. Clamps both bloody hands around my right arm, shooting bolts of searing pain from the open wounds in his palms.

  As I scream, he nails me again. One hand on my chest, one hand around my throat, scalding me. Howling with animal rage as he does it.

  I'm in shock for precious seconds, and my mind flashes back in time. All of a sudden, in my memory, I'm a child again, in the grip of a monster. I'm back being abused again, helpless at the hands of someone who's taking advantage of me.

  My head spins and my heart pounds with horror. It all rushes back in a crushing wave, all the agony from the childhood trauma that feels like it happened only yesterday.

  Or last week.

  But the feeling doesn't last. I'm a man, no longer helpless, and I'll never surrender. The one thing stronger than the terror of that memory is my determination never to let it happen again.

  I hurl aside the memory and lunge back to the present. Gathering all my strength, I heave off Stigmata, sending him sprawling over the washing machines.

  He quickly springs from the washers and sprints for the door. I take two big strides at full height, then dive headfirst and slide across the floor, transforming to a kid in mid-slide, turning small enough to slip between his legs.

  When I shoot out in front of him, I turn grown-up again. Stigmata trips over me and crashes into the closed front door, then slides to the floor. Outside, a young woman with an empty pink laundry basket watches with interest.

  "Can I still get my load out of the dryer?" she shouts through the glass.

  *****

  I let her take all her clothes except two pairs of jeans. I need them to tie up Stigmata.

  By the time the woman clears out, I've got Stigmata wrapped up like a turkey, on his belly on top of the washers. Hands and feet trussed up behind him where his wounds can't do me any harm.

  "Tell me about the hero porn." I hold up his head by a fistful of long, brown hair. "Who hired you?"

  "Your mama, Man-Baby." Stigmata hawks up a loogie.

  Before he can spit it at me, I bounce his face off the white metal lid of the washer. "Fucking tell me!" I bounce him again for good measure. "I already know you were part of this."

  "With my wounds? That'd be some freaky ass porn." Stigmata emits a bubbling snicker through the blood oozing from his broken nose.

  "Mammon said they use you as bait." I lift up his head and stare into his bloodshot eyes. He smells like pot and piss. "You lure the costumed avengers with some half-assed criminal escapade. Get them close enough for an ambush by taser."

  Again with the bubbling snicker. "You think they did this why? To put the good guys in a porno?"

  "Snuff porn. Crush porn." I give his skull another bounce. "For pervs who get off on seeing things crushed."

  This time, Stigmata laughs out loud. "And that's different from you how exactly?"

  *****

  I don't kill him. That's how I'm different. Smartass Stigmata gets to go on stinking up Vegas.

  And that's all he needs to know. Why bother explaining to a cockroach why my life is in ruins? Why I can never shake the memories of being victimized?

  No matter how hard I try, I can never forget. No matter how many scumbag assholes I beat senseless. No matter how much justice I seize for the victims.

  None of it takes away the memories of being attacked. Of being lured to a crime scene and captured when my guard was down...just as I'd transformed into a seven-year-old.

  Drugged to the point of helplessness, I was trapped in the body of a child. I was outnumbered, overpowered, pinned down.

  Violated.

  Just think how that would incinerate your soul. You have the mind of an adult, keenly aware of the full reality of what's happening and what's to come...and the body of a child, unable to break free. It's the kind of nightmare that makes the worst nightmare you can imagine seem like the sweetest dream.

  And it's still as fresh in my mind as if it happened last week...because it did.

  I can't forget it, no matter how many times I pound Stigmata's head off the washing machine. Even after he's told me what he knows. Even after he's given me a lead in the case.

  Did "getting off" ever have anything to do with it?

  *****

  "Yes! Yes! Yeessss!" The woman's voice bursts out at me when I crack the door. Looking in, I catch a glimpse of her naked, gyrating body through the cameras and crew, bathed in light on a vast bed in the middle of the soundstage.

  Looks like Stigma
ta might have sent me to the right place. Or is this just another warehouse turned porn factory?

  One of the crew shoos me out, and I close the door behind me. Nothing there I was looking for anyway.

  I walk across the hall and try another door. This time, it's girl on girl. On girl.

  On girl.

  I move on. Reach for another door further down the line. And the second I crack it, I know.

  Time freezes as I listen to the distant voice crying for help. Not distant.

  Tiny.

  I take a breath and hold the door steady. I count to three and decide on a strategy.

  And as I push the door the rest of the way open, I let myself melt into my other form. The body of a seven-year-old boy.

  With the rage of a thirty-eight-year-old man.

  As I charge across the room, the crew is startled. How did this fucking kid get in here? Somebody stop him!

  I duck and weave as they reach for me. I punch one guy in the balls and knock over a hot spotlight on another.Another guy gets hold of my cloak, but I slip right out of it. Someone lands a kick on my back, but it's half-assed at best. Because here's the real secret of why my power's much more awesome than you might think:

  Most grown-ups pull their punches when they're hitting little kids.

  So I get to the heart of the soundstage in nothing flat, and there he is: Dust Mite, chairman of the Small Wonders, shrunk to six inches tall, stuck to a pest strip tacked to the floor.

  A blonde woman looms over him, wearing a knee-length pink dress. Her feet are bare, her toenails painted cherry red. I recognize her instantly from the movies.

  How many costumed avengers have those feet crushed already?

  *****

  Too many. There are almost too many porn creeps to fight, even for seasoned avengers like us. And Dust Mite isn't exactly a hundred percent at this point.

  By the time the brawl's in full swing, I'll bet there're thirty assholes battling us. Seven of them stark raving naked, fresh from the porno sets.

  But Dust Mite and I take all comers. Shrinking and growing in rapid succession, blinking big-little-big-little-big. Pitting the clowns against each other by dodging their blows. Then shooting up to full height to finish them off with blows of our own.

  Like machetes through sugar cane, we hack them down in clumps, two and three at a time, piling inert husks on the studio floor. Until only three of us remain.

  "No, please!" The killer cowers in a corner in her sweaty pink dress and bare feet. "Please don't hurt me!"

  "We did it!" Dust Mite throws his arm around my shoulder. "We took 'em down! The Small Wonders are safe once more."

  I shrug him off. "We're not done here." Eyes on the barefoot woman, I pound my fist in the palm of my hand. "We need information."

  "Please!" She shudders and shrinks away from me as I reach for her. "I'll tell you anything! What do you want to know?"

  *****

  Another name. She gives me another name.

  I speed across town in my Dodge Dart, running every red light. Not much traffic at five in the morning, which is good.

  My heart booms like thunder in my chest. Adrenaline sizzles through me like lightning. Almost there now.

  I'm closing in.

  What will it be like when I finish this? Can I ever throw aside the past? Will I ever forget what he did to me?

  I stomp the accelerator to the floor, and the car rockets down Las Vegas Boulevard. Pedestrians scatter from my headlights like rabbits, haunches flying.

  For an instant, I swear I can feel him in the car with me. Watching me. Haunting me like a ghost.

  Sometimes, it's still like that. And other times, I can't help but wonder.

  Am I the one doing the haunting?

  *****

  Little Lord Fauntleroy shakes his head. "You already know the answer to that question, Man-Child."

  I ask it again anyway. "Why did you make the movie?"

  We're alone in the Mousehole, where the barefoot porn star sent me. Standing at opposite ends of the big oval table where the Small Wonders hold their meetings. Even from here, I can see the nervous wiggle of his butter-soft fingers.

  "You know I'd never do that." Fauntleroy's laugh is forced. "I'm as appalled by those crush films as you are."

  "Not according to Leila Scintilla." I start walking around the table. The sound of my cracking knuckles echoes through the Mousehole. "Leila says you run the whole operation."

  Fauntleroy rolls his eyes. "Who the fuck is this Leila character?"

  I keep walking toward him. Boots scuffing on the floor. Waiting for him to make his move. "Quit fucking around. Tell me why you did it."

  Suddenly, Little Lord Fauntleroy drops out of sight. Pulling his usual trick.

  The one I've been expecting. Which is why I drop to three-foot-five at exactly the same instant. And I'm waiting for him when he scurries under the table.

  "Fuck you!" His voice sounds like a muppet gargling gravel. He looks like he's been stepped on.

  Because that's his gimmick. Instead of shrinking proportionately, his body accordions down. He looks like a cartoon coyote who's just waddled out from under a giant anvil, eyes blinking between layers of furry pancake atop two tiny, scuttling feet.

  It's a great gimmick for throwing an opponent off his game. Great for getting out of the way of things fast.

  But how great is it for fighting? Say, fighting a seven-year-old boy?

  *****

  He tells me everything by the time I'm done with him. Tells me how he made a small fortune on crush-porn. Tells me how he planned to jump-start his hero career by making himself the last shrinking avenger standing. By cornering the mighty-mite market.

  None of which puts an end to the ass-kicking I'm giving him.

  "Wait, stop!" Fauntleroy's deformed accordion body flutters on the blood-streaked floor of the Mousehole. "I told you why I killed them! I told you about the crush-porn movies!"

  "I don't care about any of that." I haul back my foot for another kick. "I need to know about the other movie."

  I let the kick fly, and Fauntleroy squeals like a dog's rubber chew toy.

  "Tell me!" I lay into him again. "Who made the movie with the kid?"

  *****

  I find her in bed, at home, asleep. A sliver of light from the rising sun sliding up over her from between the drawn curtains.

  It doesn't seem possible. That the one I've been hunting all night, all around town, is her.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and stroke her silky red hair. Her bright green eyes flicker open, and she sees me.

  And she smiles. My wife, Sheba, smiles like nothing's come between us. Like she never walked away from me. She's as beautiful as ever.

  I feel sick in the stomach. I never imagined I could feel so much hate for someone I once loved. "How could you?" My voice is a whisper.

  A little frown creases Sheba's forehead. "I don't understand."

  "I know it was you." I keep stroking her hair. This could be a moment from five years ago, or three years or one, me coming back from a late night patrol, her waking up to greet me. "I know everything. Except why."

  Sheba sits up. Her face hardens like stone. "I think you should leave, Isaac."

  I realize I can't reach her like this. And I'm not willing to beat a confession out of her. I'm afraid that once I start hitting her, I might not stop until she's dead.

  So I change. The thirty-eight-year-old melts away, leaving the seven-year-old in his place.

  I take off my mask. Tears trickle down my face. The memory of what happened rises up within me, crushing me.

  So horrible. Being so small and helpless. Overpowered, unable to fight back.

  And this makes it a million times worse. Like being violated all over again.

  "Why, Sheba?" I can't stop the tears. "Why did you do it?"

  She stares at me, frozen. She seems to have no intention of making this any easier.

  "Why?" I grab her hand before
she can snatch it away. "Sheba, why?"

  Does she even have a clue how terrible it was? Being brutalized. Victimized. With the camera rolling the whole time.

  How could she do it? I need to know.

  "Tell me." I squeeze her hand harder.

  Her granite face flickers with emotion. "Isaac..."

  She ordered it. From Fauntleroy. She paid for it.

  "For your own good," she says. "I did you a favor."

  "A favor?" I squeeze her hand harder. If I were in my adult form, I would break it.

  Sheba squeezes back. "Turning into a little boy all the time...it's ruined you. Held you back." She looks away. "You're only half a man."

  My head is spinning. I live it all again, in the spaces between her words.

  "You need to grow up," says Sheba. "Like a normal human being. Stop playing super-hero. Stop running away."

  I remember feeling it happen in gauzy slow motion, through the drugs they gave me. Begging them to stop. The words of an adult in the voice of a child.

  Begging.

  "No more second childhoods." Sheba wipes a tear from my cheek with her thumb. "Or third or fiftieth or hundredth. Time to go cold turkey. To make you never want to be a child again."

  As hard as I drove myself to find out who was behind it, I wish I didn't know. And I wish I'd never heard the next words she says to me.

  "Did it work, Isaac?" She actually looks hopeful. "Did it work?"

  *****