by Jack Bristol
"That's better," she says. "Shall we?"
You know how sometimes you wrench the top off a beer and it spurts foam all over the place? That's what's going on in my gut right now—only the foam's got nowhere to go. So it's just busting its beer nut all over my insides.
I can't fucking wait until this is over.
Silly me, I offer Amy my hand just, you know, to do the gentlemanly thing and escort her across the road. She looks at my open palm like it's cancer.
"Just trying to be nice."
She tucks her hands into her coat pockets. "I know how to cross a road."
Jesus. She's one tough nut. But I bet she's sweeter than candy on the inside.
Did you see the completely moronic, idiotic, stupid thing I completely failed to do?
Everything that happens next is my own stupid fault.
* * *
Two people walk into a bar—one drop-dead gorgeous girl and one smoking hot superhero. And the bartender says, "Date?"
The superhero says, "No, but I can hook you up with my co-worker. Because apparently, he's desperate and not all that picky."
Funny?
I didn't think so either.
Ted the bartender just looks at me in his signature cardboard cutout way. His attention turns to the girl. "Who's that?"
"This is Amy," I tell him, waving a hand in her direction. "She's a professor."
"She going with you?"
"Looks like."
"That a good idea?"
What's with tonight's grilling? Do I look like a guy who's got all the answers? Because I don't.
"It's an idea. I'll let you know if it's good or not." Then, whether she likes it or not, I grab Amy's gloved hand and drag her out back to the janitor's closet.
For the record, the shitty band is playing Hotel California. If you can call that playing.
Just thought you should know.
"In here." Same as last time—and every other time—I yank open the closet door, after glancing around to make sure no one has followed us out here.
No witnesses. Come to think of it, there never are.
Now I'm wondering if those poor sods drowning what's left of their hopes and dreams in the bottom of a grimy glass at the bar are even alive. Could be they're window dressing. Ditto the band and their setlist of one.
Amy's beautiful mouth has a confused twist. "You want me to get in that closet with you?"
"You ever hear of seven minutes in heaven?"
"Who hasn't?"
If you're that one person who doesn't know about seven minutes in heaven, this is for you.
You're thirteen or fourteen—maybe twelve or fifteen—one of those notoriously moist ages. Yes, I said moist. Get over it. I hate the word too, but if you've ever been that age you'll know it's the perfect descriptor. So you're one of the above ages and you're at a party. Maybe one of the first mixed parties you've been to since you were seven. And someone has the bright idea about throwing names into two hats—boys in one, girls in the other. You pull out a name or someone pulls out yours, and then you're sent into a closet for seven minutes.
Doesn't matter if you're hot for them or if they're a wildebeest in your opinion, into the closet you go. Making out isn't required, but hey, when in the closet …
"This is more like thirty seconds of hell," I tell her.
"I trust you." Her hand slips into mine.
Now she trusts me? Girls! I understand them, but I sure as fuck don't "get" them. And this one? She's more mysterious than the first season of Lost.
I don't know what her deal is. But I'm gonna guess … aliens.
(That's the guy with the big poofy hair's stock answer.)
Hopefully this will work. Since I only have the aforementioned source to work with, I have no idea if the floor will refuse to budge or—
Whoosh!
The bottom drops out of the closet like it always does, so that answers that question. Beside me, Amy gasps.
I know the feeling, sugar tits. It never goes away.
Third seconds later, we land in the middle of a light and noise show. All that's missing are the pyrotechnics. And surrounding us?
Guns.
Some of this world and some not.
What the—
Twenty-One
—fuck.
The whole place is on some kind of red alert. And the whole freakin' circus seems to be aimed right at us.
Did I say seems?
It's aimed right at us. Up close and in our faces. In fact, the muzzle of some kind of ray gun is resting on the tip of my nose. If I sneeze I'm a dead man—guaranteed. Looks like something out of those Men in Black movies. I never said all our specialists and weapons providers originated on Earth.
The actual superheroes—the guys and girls who work on the streets—are standing back, letting Security do their jobs. Security has formed a uniformed ring around us. Very monotonous in their blue and gray threads. Easy to pick them out, I guess. Sure, I've got a tasteful costume (can't go wrong with black on black), but some of the others? Blinding. I'm talking pink paired with green, neon yellow butted up to neon purple.
"What the hell?" See me dialing down the curse words for these guys? Nice of me—right? Okay, so it's partly niceness, partly a survival tactic; why piss them off more? "I'm here for a follow-up hearing with the SuperCouncil."
Click-click.
"Get up slowly. Hands behind your heads. Weapons on the ground."
Nice flow of logic. When I point it out, they're unamused.
"Get up slowly. Weapons on the ground. Hands behind your heads."
Amy's hand is still tucked in mine (it's a miracle!), so I pull her up with me. Then I get down to the business of ditching the weaponry. The guns, the grenades, the hidden knives. Can't throw myself on the ground though, can I? Even unarmed I'm lethal, if I put my mind and fists to it.
But I'm standing in superhero central. I'm one pair of fists. They're dozens—maybe hundreds.
"It's okay," I tell the professor.
I'm lying. It's not okay. And I can't guarantee it'll be okay thirty seconds from now. Or thirty minutes. We could be a couple of grease stains on the floor any second now. Not that either of us is carrying much body fat.
"Her, too," the wannabe TSA agent barks.
"She's not armed, you doofuses."
That's when Amy laughs. Remember how I compared her laugh to the glorious peal of a wet finger around a crystal rim? I'd like to change my answer. Same crystal, only now it sound like someone's slamming it with a hammer, and those tiny, sharp shards are burrowing into my skin, slicing through the thin membranes inside my ears.
It's joyful—in a mentally deranged way.
"Uh …" That's my way of asking what the fucking FUCK is going on. Eloquent, I know, but I feel like that one idiot who doesn't get the joke, so he's forced to either laugh along to save face, or stand there not laughing, hoping someone will clue him in.
Lucky me, Amy clues me in.
"Super Fucking Hero," she purrs. She places her finger on my shoulder, circles me, looking me over like I'm what's for dinner.
Maybe she doesn't know the difference between beef and beefcake.
"That's my name, baby. Don't wear it out."
That finger dances across my shoulders, then comes to roost on my chest. Any other time? Arousing. But see the guy below my belt, my partner in fighting crime? He's playing dead.
Smart.
"You brought me right here." She holds her hands up, turns in a tight circle. "The SuperCouncil building. I've been dying to get in here for years, so I can destroy the whole thing."
You were all slapping your foreheads several pages back, but the light is only just now coming on in my head. It's on a dimmer switch, so it's a slow process.
I should have blindfolded her.
Or left her behind.
Or, I dunno, kept my mouth shut.
"But …" The pearls keep rolling off my tongue.
"What?" She looks me u
p and down, assessing me like she's in the market for a horse. "But we only just met? But how could I know about this place? But, but, but." That wicked wench reaches around, squeezes my buns. Both hands.
Saucy.
"But I rescued you. Twice. You didn't even believe I was a superhero at first."
"I was counting on you showing up, Super Fucking Hero. Don't you feel special? Out of all these superheroes, I picked you to be my key to the SuperCouncil."
She. Used. Me.
Oh, and she's apparently evil.
I wasn't starting to like her. Seriously.
Okay, you got me. Yeah, I was starting to like her—a lot.
The penised half of the human population doesn't take rejection well.
Case in point:
"Yeah, I feel special. But you? You're just a common cunt."
Cue the horrified expression on Amy's face. Calling a woman a cunt is a call to battle. Unless it's part of your kinky domination and submission game.
Let's slo-mo it. Otherwise, the scene's going to sprint by and you'll get nothing but a blur. Then you'll feel all ripped off when you're done reading.
I don't want you to feel ripped off. I want you back here to read my continuing adventures.
Big things planned, my friends. Big things.
But first I've got two problems on my hands: the SuperCouncil and this … villain. She's the immediate problem, so let's start there.
I would never hit a girl or a woman. Ever. It's not cool. If I struck a woman, I know my mother would leap up out of the grave and have me retroactively aborted.
Yeah, I'd give anything to see her again, but not like that.
Plus, I love girls. It's not just the sex—it's the everything. Is there anything more wonderful that the female of our species? They're everything we're not—and then some.
But the professor? She's shaping up to be a whole bag of bitches.
She swings at me. It's a good jab. Too bad I'm not there to catch it. I'm already whirling away, tapping her on the shoulder before she's pulled that arm all the way back.
"Yoohoo. I'll make you famous."
The fist drops. She throws on a disgusted expression. "Young Guns? Really? Did you just quote Young Guns?"
"Nope. Young Guns II."
"Ugh."
"What can I say? I'm your huckleberry."
Somebody in the crowd chuckles. Naturally, I bow. Amy catches me not in a weak moment, but in a polite one. While I'm bending low, she puts her foot up my ass and shoves.
Nice marble tile. Clean. Recently waxed. Doesn't taste so good though.
Immediate recovery. I zip into the air, perform a somersault, land on my feet behind her.
"That wasn't nice."
"It wasn't meant to be nice," she says.
"Keep it up and I'll show you why God put your two holes so close together."
"Sex jokes, Super Fucking Hero? At a time like this?"
"Sex joke? No, no, no. I was going to pick you up like an empty six-pack and throw you out with the rest of the garbage."
Her eyes widen. Her mouth makes a big O.
"That's right, sweetheart," I continue, because I can't help myself. "I dodged a bullet when you refused to fuck me. For a while there I forgot I don't stick my favorite body part in trash."
There's a collective intake of breath.
Aren't they supposed to be on my side? Why aren't they helping?
Figures. They're enjoying the show.
That big, round O settles into an unnerving smile. What's she got to be happy about? I'm insulting her and we're surrounded by guns. She should be pooping those skin-tight pants.
"You have no idea who I am, do you?" That voice, it's silk. Poison-laced silk, but silk. She nods at the crowd. "They know. But not poor, pathetic, sex-addicted Super Fucking Hero. You're like a big, dumb dog. And I'm going to make sure you're neutered. Or euthanized. Whichever. I'm not picky."
She tilts her gaze up, and like a circus monkey, mine follows.
The janitor's closet floor is falling—fast. It's coming right for us. Leaping out of its path, I pull Amy to safety with me. Okay, we land in a heap at the feet of some angry-looking people with guns, but at least the closet floor won't land on our heads.
Stupid, Super Fucking Hero, I hear you saying. Why save the professor? She's a real bitch.
I can't help it. A girl in danger is a girl in danger, even when she's Godzilla with tits.
That fizzing beer in my gut? It's a twelve-pack now. In fact, there's a full-scale Fourth of July party happening in there, right down to the fireworks. And let tell you, folks—nothing good comes of shooting bottle rockets in a confined space. Ask Captain Kern. He and I know, man. We know.
This doesn't feel good.
When the floor lands. I blink.
And blink.
And then I say, "What the fuck?"
"Surprise, motherfucker."
That intelligent bit of speech just popped out of one of those football assholes. The same assholes I've bundled up twice now and shipped off to the cops. All five bozos this time.
"You look like a pack of tampons," I say. "Used ones."
Not that I know what that looks like, but I can guess it looks like these guys in their blood red uniforms. They're all dressed in the same red T-shirts (in February? Really?) and red cargo pants. Even the boots are red. The only thing out of place are the goggles dangling around their necks.
"Good news," I tell them. "I hear Cirque du Soleil is hiring. You clowns are gonna need a plan B when you flunk."
There goes that loony laugh again. "They're not flunking college," Amy says as the goons steps off the floor and it rockets back to the closet upstairs.
"But—"
"Oh, come on. How stupid are you? I mean I know you're an idiot, but you're a whole new level of moronic. You interrupted our little … game. Twice. My boys and I do enjoy a good game of hide and go fuck."
Have you figured it out yet? Because I haven't.
Until she rips away that fetching winter coat, revealing her surprise.
I'm a moron, I admit it. When she showed up in her thick coat over red pants and red boots, I assumed, hey, here's a girl who digs red. Red's great. It's a powerful color. Want to intimidate in a meeting? Show you're ruthless? Confident? Red's your color. But when it comes to Amy, I missed what she squished in my face. Her top is red, too. And on the front?
A big, black F.
"Fuck." I stagger backwards. "You're Super Fucking Villain. My nemesis!"
"Gotcha," she says. "But let's face it, you were an easy target. A sitting duck. All I had to do was not fuck you. Which … wasn't easy to do." She wipes that gaze all over my body. It makes me feel a fizzy combination of cheap, dirty, and horny. "You are a tasty boy. That body, that face, that Super Fucking Hero charm …"
"I am charming."
Hey, humility isn't one of my strengths.
"M'am, you'll have to come with us," one of the Security guys barks. That's the good guys, for those of you keeping score.
And by the way, what took them so long?
Oh. Now I get it. It's her. Amy. The professor. Super Fucking Villain. She's me with a wondrous rack and a face handcrafted by angels. To me she's sizzling hot, but to them, the guys without my superpowers? One word: devastating.
I have good deeds on my side. Nothing wins the ladies over like a dashing superhero who risks himself to save them from certain death or injury.
But Super Fucking Villain, what's she got in her arsenal?
Okay, aside from the spectacular breasts and an ass every straight guy on the planet would kill to see spread wide in front of him.
No acts of heroism, that's for sure. So must be some kind of perfume she's oozing, a pheromone designed to suck men into her vagina vortex—but to what end?
"Say, what's a Super Fucking Villain do? 'Cause besides being a pain in my ass, your job sounds pretty pointless."
"Oh, you don't like a little pain in the ass? I'll re
member that," she says. "I figured you for an open-minded boy. My other boys certainly are." She waves her hand at her meathead minions.
Do they flinch? Nope.
"I'm not your boy, Super Fucking Villain. That won't change."
She throws her head back, unleashes another maniacal laugh. Yeah, she's certifiable—not to mention evil—but that laugh still has one sexy, jagged edge. "Oh, it will. It might take time, but you'll be mine. After I'm finished here, of course."
"What do you want?"
A voice steps out of the crowd. "To destroy the SuperCouncil, of course. What does any supervillain want?"
By the way, that's Clarissa Westlake. Remember her from my prior meeting with the SuperCouncil? She's the one in the cardigan with the fussy lace around the collar. She always reminds of me of cats, doilies, and overstuffed couches stamped with cabbage roses.
"First the SuperCouncil," Clarissa continues. "And eventually the world."
"The SuperCouncil," Super Fucking Villain says, "yes. I'm going to put you out of business—permanently. Tonight. The world? No, no, no. I've got plans for the world."
I hold up my hands. "I still don't know what she does."
Clarissa threads a path through Security, stopping on my side of the manmade ring. "She leads men to their doom, of course. She drains them dry, financially, emotionally, physically …"
Hey, it's nothing to do with me when my cock stirs. It wants to hear more about this physical draining. Idiot. Doesn't know what's good for him.
"… and they wind up homeless, in the morgue, in psychiatric facilities—"
"They have the power to say no," Super Fucking Villain says her in own lame defense.
"—and the lives they leave behind them are left in ruins. Families permanently broken, corporations plundered, need I go on?"
"Oh do," Super Fucking Villain gushes. "And maybe you want to tell everyone how you know, while you're at it."
"My history is no secret, Amy Hart."
My hand shoots up. "I don't know. Someone want to enlighten me?"
Clarissa stays fixed on Amy. "What the professor is referring to is that I am the former Super Fucking Villain."
My mouth gapes. Looks like I've been fisted in the kisser, I know.